MY 

LADY 

APRIL 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


MY   LADY  APRIL 


BY  JOHN  OVERTON 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAQH 

I.  CASSILLIS  CLEARS  THE  STAGE                     i 

II.  LADY   FORREST   AT   HOME                    .     10 

III.  INTRODUCING  THE  HERO 23 

IV.  THE    DECOY 32 

V.  BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN    .     .     41 

VI.  THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER 56 

VII.  LARRY  CAVANAGH 72 

VIII.  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  AIR 91 

IX.  SPIDER  AND  FLY 97 

X.  THE  PAPER  DOLL 109 

XI.  SUSPICION  .  . 115 

XII.  THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  HILL  .  .  .  .122 

XIII.  LURCHED 132 

XIV.  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOAT  AND  COM- 

PASSES     136 

XV.    ALARUMS 149 

XVI.    EXCURSIONS      ...... 158 

XVII.  YOUNG  CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE  183 

XVIII.    NEWS 199 


2131871 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE  PAGE 

XIX.  MAY  DAY  AT  HAZELHURST  ....  205 

XX.  YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE  .     .     .  218 

XXI.    THE  ROAD  TO  ASH  HOLT 231 

XXII.    ASH  HOLT  GRANGE 242 

XXIII.  T'OTHER     DEAR     CHARMER"     .      .     .248 

XXIV.  IN  THE  WEST  WING 256 


MY  LADY  APRIL 

CHAPTER  I 

CASSILLIS  CLEARS  THE  STAGE 

GLAD  in  yellow  linen  drawers  and  jacket, 
and  up  to  his  armpits  in  the  steaming  waters 
of  the  King's  Bath,  Sir  George  Forrest 
hooked  his  wrist  through  an  iron  ring  in  the  wall, 
and  yawned  with  no  attempt  to  disguise  his  bore- 
dom. 

Beaux,  almost  unrecognizable  in  the  hideous  cos- 
tume that  custom  demanded,  lounged  through  the 
water,  cropped  heads  tied  in  silk  kerchiefs  or 
crowned  with  the  fashionable  tricorn.  Belles,  half- 
hid  beneath  chip  hats,  controlled  their  water-logged 
dresses  with  some  difficulty  and  kept  watchful  eyes 
upon  the  little  wooden  trays  that  bobbed  in  front 
of  them,  precariously  carrying  handkerchief,  patch- 
box  and  nosegay. 

Habitues  idled  at  the  windows  of  the  Pump- 
Room  and  the  air  was  full  of  shouted  conversa- 
tion; sally  and  repartee;  compliment  and  laughing 
banter. 

Somewhere   near,    a   band   played   noisily,   and 


2  MY  LADY  APRIL 

April  sunshine,  reflected  from  the  troubled  waters, 
rippled  and  splashed  in  a  thousand  jack-o'-lanterns 
upon  the  gray  buildings. 

Through  the  bottom  of  his  empty  glass  Mr.  Cas- 
sillis  caught  sight  of  Sir  George  and  leaned  out  of  a 
window  to  hail  him. 

Sir  George  was  not  enthusiastic.  "Hello,  Cas- 
sillis,"  he  yawned.  "How  d'e  do?" 

"Didn't  know  you  bathed!"  bawled  Mr.  Cassillis. 

"I  don't,"  returned  Forrest.  "That  is,  not  as  a 
rule,  y'know.  Got  a  headache  this  morning. 
Thought  it  might  do  good." 

"Aha!  Too  many  libations  to  the  rosy  god,  eh?" 
Mr.  Cassillis  went  through  a  suggestive  pantomime. 

Sir  George  scowled.  "Demmed  popinjay!"  he 
muttered,  and,  loosing  his  hold  upon  the  ring,  waded 
through  the  crowd  of  bathers  toward  the  dark  steps 
that  led  to  The  Slips. 

Craning  a  long  neck  Mr.  Cassillis  watched  his 
progress,  and  presently  beckoned  to  a  seedy-16oking 
individual  behind  him. 

"You  were  asking  for  Sir  George  Forrest? 
Look,  yonder  he  goes  to  dress.  You'll  catch  him 
as  he  comes  out  if  you  go  round  to  the  entrance." 

The  fellow  nodded,  laid  a  finger  to  his  nose  and 
pouched  a  shilling. 

Mr.  Cassillis,  sniffing  at  a  pomander,  minced  away 
to  breakfast  in  Spring  Gardens  with  my  Lady  Gil- 
lespie,  whose  portrait  he  had  just  completed;  and 
emerging  into  the  sunny  day  a  little  later,  Sir 
George  found  himself  tapped  smartly  on  the  shoul- 


CASSILLIS  CLEARS  THE  STAGE         3 

der    by    a    dirty    hand    holding    a    folded    paper. 

"What's   this?"   said  he,   recoiling  instinctively. 

The  man  grinned.  "I've  served  ye,  right  enough. 
Sir  George  Forrest,  an't  it?  To  the  suit  o'  Mrs. 
Deykin.  Eight  hundred  an'  forty  odd." 

"A  writ?"  groaned  Sir  George.     "O  demmit!" 

Much  too  upset  to  walk  he  hailed  a  chair  and 
was  carried  home,  floundering  into  his  wife's  room 
to  find  her  at  her  dressing-table  sipping  chocolate 
and  dawdling  over  an  elaborate  toilet. 

"O  lud,  George!"  said  she.  "What  need  have 
you  to  burst  in  upon  me  like  a  bull  in  a  china  shop? 
What's  the  matter?" 

The  waiting-woman   discreetly  vanished. 

He  flung  the  paper  into  her  lap  and  himself  on 
to  a  settee,  threw  hat  and  wig  across  the  floor  and 
swore  till  he  was  hoarse. 

"A  writ!"  Lavinia  opened  the  paper  and  read 
it  hurriedly,  biting  her  lower  lip. 

"A  writ,  thanks  to  your  extravagance.  I  told 
you  'twould  come  to  it,  but  you  never  heeded. 
You'll  land  me  in  the  Fleet  'fore  you've  done.  You 
suggested  taking  this  house  and  running  a  faro 
table.  Deuced  risky  undertaking.  I  said  as  much, 
but  you'll  never  listen  to  reason.  You  would  try 
it." 

"What  else  could  I  have  done,  sir?  We  had 
to  have  money — " 

"And  now  comes  a  writ,  just  as  our  tables  begin 
to  be  fashionable.  What  need  had  you  to  run  into 
debt?" 


4  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Great  heavens,  sir !     I  must  be  clothed !" 

On  the  subject  of  his  wife's  wardrobe  Sir  George 
expressed  himself  with  more  force  than  politeness; 
v_2d  Lavinia  was  pondering  the  choice  between  a 
swoon  or  hysterics  when  her  woman  tapped  at  the 
door. 

"Mr.  Cassillis  to  wait  upon  you,  m'lady." 

"Demmit,  we're  not  at  home!"  cried  Sir  George. 

Janet  looked  at  her  mistress. 

"Beg  him  to  walk  upstairs,"  said  Lavinia,  and 
as  the  maid  went,  "George,  don't  be  a  fool.  He 
may  be  able  to  help." 

"Gad,  he  owes  us  a  debt  of  gratitude!"  George 
brightened,  retrieved  his  wig,  and  donned  it  before 
the  mirror.  "After  all,  'twas  I  took  him  up  and 
made  him  the  rage.  Why,  he'd  not  one  shilling  to 
rub  against  another  when  we  brought  him  to  Win- 
terbourne  and  let  him  paint  our  portraits.  And  now 
half  Bath  crowds  his  studio."  He  turned  as  the 
tap  of  high  heels  approached  along  the  polished 
landing.  Lavinia  had  a  prejudice  against  carpets 
which  deadened  the  sound  of  feet.  "Hello, 
Cassillis,"  cried  Forrest.  "Here's  sad  news !" 

"Take  these  books  back  to  the  library,  Janet," 
said  her  mistress.  "And  call  at  Mrs.  Wells'  and  ask 
if  my  red  petticoat  is  scoured.  Bring  it  with  you. 
You  may  have  to  wait.  And  get  a  yard  of  blue 
sarcenet  at  the  shop  in  Green  Street.  And  leave 
these  notes  in  The  Circus.  And  as  you  come  back 
call  at  Mrs.  Darbey's  for  that  pattern  I  lent  her. 


And  then  come  finish  me.     Don't  loiter,  child.    I'm 
in  a  hurry." 

Annoyed  that  she  was  given  no  opportunity  of 
listening  at  the  door,  Janet  collected  an  armful  of 
novels  and  took  herself  off.  Lavinia  fidgeted  with 
the  silver-topped  jars  upon  her  table;  Sir  George 
gloomily  surveyed  his  boots ;  Mr.  Cassillis,  glancing 
from  one  to  the  other,  murmured  something  about 
calling  later  at  a  more  convenient  hour. 

"No,  don't  go,"  said  Forrest  without  looking  up. 
"We're  in  the  deuce  of  a  mess,  Cassillis.  Give 
him  the  demmed  thing,  Lawy." 

The  artist's  pale  eyes  met  Lady  Forrest's  for  a 
moment.  He  took  the  paper  from  her  hand,  read 
it,  pursed  his  lips  into  a  silent  whistle.  "Eight 
forty-two.  Phew !  The  woman's  done  you,  some- 
how. Sure,  you  can't  owe  all  that  for  clothes !" 

Lavinia's  indignant  rejoinder  died  in  her  throat  as 
she  met  his  glance. 

Sir  George  got  up  and  began  to  pace  to  and  fro, 
airing  his  grievances,  relieved  that  this  painter  fel- 
low took  his  view  of  the  matter.  He  had  been 
half  afraid  that  Cassillis  would  side  with  Lavinia. 
A  puppy,  always  hanging  on  to  some  woman's 
skirts ! 

"Well,  'tis  deuced  unpleasant,  but  nothing  worse," 
said  Cassillis  at  length.  "You've  a  week." 

"O  lud,  I  can't  pay  it!" 

"No?  Hum."  Mr.  Cassillis  meditated,  sucking 
the  head  of  his  clouded  cane.  "Of  all  God-forsaken 


6  MY  LADY  APRIL 

holes,  a  sponging  house  is — the — most — abhorrent. 
I  know.  I've  tried  em!" 

"The  bad  old  days  'fore  you  met  us,  eh?"  sug- 
gested Sir  George  hopefully. 

"Exactly." 

Sir  George  pondered  the  question  of  how  much 
he  might  reasonably  expect  to  borrow  from  Mr. 
Cassillis,  and  was  dashed  by  the  other's  next  words. 

"The  only  alternative,"  mused  Mr.  Cassillis,  "is 
— ah — flight."  For  the  fraction  of  a  second  his 
pale  eyes  rested  on  Lavinia. 

"Flight?     Demmit,  I  can  borrow — " 

Mr.  Cassillis  looked  sideways.  "On  what  se- 
curity? No,  my  dear  fellow.  You  don't  borrow, 
you  abscond."  He  waved  airy  fingers.  "Ab- 
scond. Ride  to  Southampton.  Take  boat  to 
Folkstone.  Once  there,  any  smuggling  lugger  will 
put  you  ashore  in  France  and  no  questions  asked." 

"Od  rot  you,  man,  you've  got  it  pat!"  said  Sir 
George  suspiciously.  "One'd  think  you'd  planned 
it  all  out." 

"La,  no !"  Mr.  Cassillis  giggled.  "  'Tis  mon- 
strous simple.  I'll  put  it  about  that  you've  taken  the 
London  road.  Once  in  Paris  you  can  start  another 
gaming  house  and  come  back  in  a  couple  o'  years' 
time  positively  rolling  in  money." 

"Gad,  that's  not  a  bad  notion!"  Sir  George 
glanced  at  the  mirror  and  preened  himself.  At 
forty-two  he  was  still  a  personable  fellow.  "Paris ! 
What  a  life!  Where's  Doll?  Let's  have  her  in 
and  tell—" 


CASSILLIS  CLEARS  THE  STAGE        7 

"Dorothy's  visiting  Miss  Abrams  for  a  day  or 
two,"  interposed  Lavinia.  "There's  no  need  to  dis- 
tress her — " 

"Distress?"  echoed  Sir  George.  "We'll  tell  her 
nothing  of  all  this.  I'll  take  Charles  and  go  to 
Paris  on  business.  You  wind  up  affairs  here  and 
follow  with  Dolly  and  your  woman.  What's  sim- 
pler? Let  her  stay  on  at  the  Jewess's  by  all  means. 
She's  well  out  on't.  Cassillis,  you'll  be  discreet? 
Well,  I'll  see  my  man  about  the  horses.  The  sooner 
I'm  off  the  better."  Amazingly  cheered  by  the  pros- 
pect of  Paris,  Forrest  nodded  his  farewell  and  strode 
off  whistling. 

Mr.  Cassillis  flourished  through  a  bow,  straight- 
ened up,  and  as  the  door  closed,  tossed  hat  and  cane 
upon  the  couch  and  crossed  to  Lavinia. 

"Well,  what  now  ?"  said  she,  rising. 

With  his  hands  at  his  hips  and  feet  apart,  he 
stood  regarding  her  with  a  curious  smile. 

She  looked  up :  met  his  eyes :  stiffened  into 
immobility. 

"To  be  brutal,  you  owe  me  close  upon  two  thou- 
sand pounds  already,  Vinny,"  said  he.  "Did  you 
believe  I  should  be  such  a  fool  as  to  lend  you  more  ?" 

She  remained  silent,  stone-cold,  staring  at  him 
with  dilated  eyes. 

"You  and  I — together — could  make  more  out  of 
faro  than  do  you  and  Sir  George,"  said  he  beneath 
his  breath.  "Your  tables  don't  bring  you  in  enough 
to  live  as  you  do,  and  I  know  a  few  things  about 
faro  that — " 


8  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Not  yet,  but  they  will,"  she  said  determinedly. 
"We're  just  beginning  to  be  fashionable." 

"This  writ'll  ruin  you." 

"O  lud,  I  can  run  the  house  without  George !" 

"But  my  dear  creature,  there'll  be  a  sale.  The 
place'll  be  stripped.  They'll  leave  you  nothing  but 
what  you  stand  in !  I  dare  swear  you  owe  others  be- 
side your  dressmaker,  and  when  the  news  gets  about 
your  tradesfolk'll  come  clamoring.  What  then?" 
An  unconcerned  observer  might  have  thought  Mr. 
Cassillis  exulted. 

Lady  Forrest  sank  into  a  chair,  still  staring  in  a 
dazed  way  at  the  man  before  her.  "I — I  thought 
maybe — you  could  help,"  she  faltered. 

He  dropped  to  his  knee  and  took  her  hands. 

"Gad,  Vinny,  I'm  no  philanthropist!  Why 
should  I  stir  a  finger  to  help  your  husband?  I'm 
thinking  of  myself — and  you.  Here's  a  chance  in 
a  million,  and  are  we  to  let  it  slip  for  fear  of  gos- 
sip? You're  no  child,  to  be  frighted  at  such  scare- 
crows, and  I — " 

"You  take  too  much  for  granted,  sir,"  she  re- 
buked him.  "D'ye  think  I'm  a  woman  to  run  off 
with  the  first  man  that  throws  his  kerchief  ?" 

Mr.  Cassillis  got  to  his  feet,  dusted  his  knees, 
glanced  at  her,  and  grinned.  "I  take  nothing  for 
granted,  madam."  He  discovered  her  hand-glass 
among  the  litter  upon  the  dressing-table,  and  pre- 
sented it,  bowing.  "Allow  me." 

Lady  Forrest  thrust  it  away.  "You — you  devil !" 
she  cried  below  her  breath.  "Ah !  Cruel — " 


CASSILLIS  CLEARS  THE  STAGE        9 

"Madam,  you  amaze  me.  I  am  the  soul  of  kind- 
ness and — ah — generosity.  I  give.  I  lend.  I  de- 
mand no  usury.  And  like  Lazarus,  I'm  content 
with  the  leavings  from  another's — ah — table." 

"Cad !"  she  said  vehemently. 

Mr.  Cassillis  shrugged,  snuffed,  and  strolled  to 
the  window  where  rosy  chintz  curtains  obscured  the 
sun. 

Lady  Forrest  looked  helplessly  after  him,  utterly 
at  a  loss.  Never  in  all  her  life  had  she  experienced 
such  treatment.  It  astounded  her,  but  she  found 
something  of  a  fascination  in  it.  Flattery  would 
have  left  her  cold ;  open  courtship  had  no  value  what- 
soever, being  an  everyday  affair  among  the  gallants 
who  crowded  her  rooms. 

Mr.  Cassillis  intrigued  her. 

At  the  end  of  five  minutes  he  found  her  at  his 
elbow. 

"Well,"  said  he,  taking  her  by  the  shoulders,  and 
regarding  her  with  twinkling  eyes,  "which  shall  it 
be?  Vienna?  Berlin?  Rome?" 


CHAPTER  II 

LADY   FORREST   AT   HOME 

BELOW  the  windows  of  Sir  Julian  Carew  the 
Bath  band  serenaded  that  old  beau  upon  the 
attainment  of   his  eightieth  birthday.     An 
unwonted  guggling  in  the  performance  provoked  in- 
quiry ;  neighboring  sashes  were  thrown  up,  becapped 
heads    thrust    out;    shouts    and    laughter   mingled 
with  the  music. 

"O  lud !"  snapped  Lady  Forrest.  "What  ails  the 
creatures?  Janet,  go  see." 

Her  woman  stepped  out  upon  the  balcony  and 
looking  across  the  street  beheld  the  cause  of  the  con- 
fusion lounging  at  ease  upon  the  sunny  pavement, 
eating  fruit. 

"Well  ?"  called  her  mistress  impatiently. 

Janet  giggled.  "  'Tis  a  gypsy  ragamuffin  suckin£ 
lemons.  La,  see  the  flageolet  a-shaking  his  pipe! 
No  wonder  they  can't  play.  Here  comes  Sir  Ju- 
lian's major-domo  to  tip  'em." 

A  pompous  old  servant  descended  the  semicircular 
stone  steps  before  Sir  Julian's  door,  distributed  sil- 
ver, swore  genteelly  at  the  loafer,  and  retired. 

The  discomfited  musicians  swore  with  a  differ- 
ence; spat,  shook  out  their  instruments,  and  beat  a 

10 


LADY  FORREST  AT  HOME         n 

retreat,  growling;  and  the  gray  thoroughfare, 
splashed  with  sunshine  and  the  gay  green  of  April, 
fiighed  its  relief  and  drowsed  again.  A  black  and 
white  cat  came  up  the  area  of  the  Forrest  house  and 
began  a  comprehensive  toilet,  and  the  gypsy  kissed 
his  hand  to  her  and  faded  into  the  landscape  after 
the  manner  of  nis  kind. 

Unaware  of  the  cat,  Janet  took  the  salute  to  her- 
self, tossed  her  curls,  tweaked  the  curtains  into  place, 
and  collecting  empty  chocolate  cups,  flounced  away. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her  Lavinia  Forrest 
turned  to  the  woman  who  brooded,  plump  and  com- 
placent, upon  the  settee  beside  the  hearth. 

"Well,  Kate,"  she  invited.  "What's  this  of  a 
new-comer?  I  heard  the  bells." 

Mrs.  Darbey  jerked  forward.  "Why,  my  love," 
she  quacked,  "the  town  talks  of  no  one  else.  Six 
foot,  and  as  handsome  as  Acheron — or  am  I  think- 
ing of  Achilles?  And  the  favorite  of  his  uncle, 
Sir  Julian,  though  to  be  sure  he's  not  the  heir  un- 
less his  cousin  should — well,  well,  we  must  hope  for 
the  best.  And  generous,  my  dear,  to  a  fault.  The 
dipper  told  me  he  gave  her  a  guinea  before  he'd  so 
much  as  put  his  lips  to  a  glass.  And  he's  engaged 
to  attend  the  ball  to-night,  I  had  it  from  the  book- 
shop on  the  walls — "  Mrs.  Darbey  paused  to 
breathe. 

"A  Carew,  did  you  say?"  Lady  Forrest  emptied 
a  trinket  box  into  her  lap  and  chose  half  a  dozen 
rings,  fitting  them  abstractedly  upon  her  thin  fin- 
gers. 


12  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Ralph  Carew.  Sir  Julian  keeps  his  eightieth 
birthday  to-day.  A  great  age.  Strange,  an't  it, 
Sir  Julian,  the  eldest  o'  the  family,  should  out-live 
his  brothers?  Henry  died  at  forty.  Raymond  at 
forty-five.  Carews  seldom  make  old  bones,  but 
they  know  how  to  enjoy  life.  They  tell  me  Ray^ 
mond  was  almost  a  pagan,  so  rash,  so  willful.  Lud, 
Valerius  don't  take  after  him!  Must  favor  his 
mother,  I  suppose.  Spaniards  are  so  lazy,  an't  they? 
The  climate.  Sir  Julian  don't  seem  to  take  kindly 
to  his  heir.  Dotes  upon  Ralph.  Regards  him  as  a 
son.  Sure,  'tis  a  monstrous  pity — "  She  relapsed 
into  sighs. 

"What  is?"  inquired  Lavinia.  "How  you  do 
gabble,  Kate!" 

"Why,  my  love,  my  thoughts  run  so  fast  I  vow 
I  can't  keep  pace  with  'em.  What  was  I  saying? 
O  lud,  yes!  A  pity  young  Ralph  an't  the  heir. 
So  friendly,  so  good-natured,  and  quite  unattached 
— I  have  it  on  the  best  authority.  And  is  your 
daughter  to  be  at  the  ball  ?  A  sweet  child.  I  won- 
der— "  Mrs.  Darbey's  small  gray  eyes  brooded 
certain  romantic  possibilities. 

"And  the  cousin,"  inquired  Lavinia.  "Is  he 
married?" 

"Valerius?  What  an  unfortunate  name! 
Sounds  like  a  medicine!  Married?  O  lud,  no! 
As  well  expect  an  oyster  to  fall  in  love.  Poor 
creature!" 

"Deformed?"  suggested  Lady  Forrest,  smoth- 
ering her  exasperation. 


LADY  FORREST  AT  HOME         13 

Mrs.  Darbey  snooped  forward  like  a  duck  in  a 
gutter.  "Heavens!  You  don't  tell  me,"  she 
gasped,  round  eyes  protruding  a  little.  "Well  now, 
'tis  not  remarkable.  He's  not  crippled.  I  saw 
him  but  yesterday  on  the  Parade.  A  lanky,  lan- 
guid fellow,  monstrous  over-dressed,  and  so  bored 
he  seemed  ready  to  fall  asleep  as  he  walked. 
What's  the  defect?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  Lady  Forrest.  "Don't 
jump  to  conclusions,  Kate." 

"And  how  is  dear  Sir  George?  I  han't  seen 
him  about  this  age!" 

It  appeared  that  dear  Sir  George  had  posted  to 
London  a  week  ago  on  urgent  business.  Skillful 
questions  elicited  the  information  that  Lavinia 
might  possibly  have  to  follow  him,  and  that  Doro- 
thy would  visit  in  the  neighborhood  until  her  par- 
ents returned. 

"No  bad  news,  I  trust?"  Mrs.  Darbey  was  avid 
for  detail. 

"O  la,  no!"  yawned  Lavinia. 

"Family  matters,  perhaps?" 

"Yes.  Monstrous  boring,  an't  they?  I  protest 
I  hardly  know  whether  a  family  wedding  an't  worse 
than  a  family  funeral.  And  how  I  detest  wearing 
black." 

"Ah!"  Mrs.  Darbey  hit  the  trail  at  last  and 
beamed  her  satisfaction.  "Well,  I  hope  'tis  a 
legacy." 

Lavinia  allowed  her  to  hope  but  changed  the  sub- 
ject adroitly,  and  various  reputations  in  Bath  were 


i4  MY  LADY  APRIL 

under  dissection  when  the  maid  appeared,  wide- 
eyed. 

"Mr. — Everett,  m'lady,"  said  she,  plaiting  the 
hem  of  her  pinner. 

Lady  Forrest  turned  sharply  and  recognized  a 
danger  signal.  "Lud,  how  tiresome  men  are! 
Did  you  tell  him  I  was  engaged?" 

"Most  particular,  m'lady.  But  he  said  'twas 
important." 

"What's  o'clock,  child?" 

"  'Tis  close  on  twelve,  m'lady." 

"O  lud!"  quacked  Mrs.  Darbey,  rising  hastily. 
"And  I  vowed  I'd  meet  Lady  Sue  at  noon!"  She 
collected  her  fan,  her  muff  and  her  silk  bag ;  preened 
herself  and  made  her  adieu,  explaining  at  great 
length  that  she  had  missed  half  a  dozen  appoint- 
ments in  order  to  visit  her  sweet  Lavvy. 

Her  sweet  Lavvy  pecked  at  her,  smiled  mechan- 
ically, and  nodded  to  her  woman. 

Janet  reappeared  a  moment  later. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  her  mistress. 

"A  rough-looking  fellow,  m'lady.  He  got  his 
foot  in  the  door  'fore  I  could  slam  it.  He's  a- 
sitting  in  the  dining-room." 

"Did  Mrs.  Darbey  see  him?" 

"La,  no,   m'lady.     I  took  good  care  o'  that!" 

Lady  Forrest  exchanged  her  wrapper  for  a  gown 
and  descended  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  genus 
bailiff.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  experience.  Barthol- 
omew Griggs  prided  himself  on  his  manners  with 
women. 


LADY  FORREST  AT  HOME         15 

Revolted,  Lavinia '  escaped  to  her  boudoir  and 
summoned  Janet,  but  when  the  maid  came  her 
mistress  for  once  found  nothing  to  say. 

The  two  women  looked  at  one  another. 

"If  quite  convenient  to  you,  m'lady,  I  should 
wish  to  leave,  not  being  accustomed  to  having  the 
bumbailey  a-sitting  in  my  dining-room,  as  it  were." 
She  was  prepared  for  reproaches. 

"It's  very  well,"  assented  Lady  Forrest,  out- 
wardly composed.  "Be  good  enough  to  lay  my 
pink  taffety  ready  for  to-night.  And  Janet,  say 
nothing  to  Miss  Dorothy.  I'll  not  have  her  dis- 
turbed. She'll  sleep  till  five,  and  then  you  may 
dress  her  for  the  ball.  Order  a  chair  for  six 
o'clock." 

She  turned  to  her  desk  and  chose  a  pen,  trying 
the  nib  upon  a  finger-nail. 

"But,  m'lady,  do  we  open  the  rooms  to-night  as 
usual?"  gasped  Janet,  never  able  to  understand  her 
mistress's  self-control,  and  invariably  losing  her 
head  before  Lavinia's  icy  restraint. 

"Of  course." 

"But  the—" 

"He  can  sit  in  the  pantry.  See  that  he  has  a 
good  supper  and  plenty  of  ale,  and  Janet — you  may 
lock  him  in.  I'll  not  have  him  coming  upstairs 
among  my  guests." 

Impressed,  Janet  retired;  dusted  the  gaming- 
rooms  upon  the  first  floor,  replenished  the  candle- 
sticks, and  descending,  set  glass  and  china  ready 
in  the  dining-room. 


1 6  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Bartholomew  Griggs,  writing  laboriously  in  a 
dirty  pocket-book,  dogged  her  steps. 

"Get  out  from  under  my  feet,  I  tell  ye!"  said 
Janet  at  length.  "You'll  get  trod  on.  What  are 
you  at?" 

"Tottin'  up  the  furniture,  missie,"  rejoined 
Griggs.  "What's  the  lay?  Party  to-night?" 

"Ho,  no  more'n  usual!"  said  Janet,  breathing 
on  a  spoon  and  rubbing  it  vigorously. 

"We  entertain  lavish,  don't  we?"  chuckled 
Griggs.  "Let's  see.  Cut  glass  aypernay  badly 
chipped  on  foot.  Four,  eight,  twelve,  sixteen — 
ecod!  how  many  o'  them  long-legged  glasses?" 
He  sucked  his  pencil  and  eyed  the  table  apprais- 
ingly. 

"Keep  your  fingers  off  'em!"  snapped  Janet,  os- 
tentatiously polishing. 

"Oh,  bless  your  heart,  I  an't  doin'  no  damage. 
But  anything  to  obleege  a  lady."  He  smirked  at 
her  and  pottered  round  the  room,  examining  the 
gilded  mirrors  and  muttering  to  himself.  Janet, 
watching  him  sidelong,  was  suddenly  concerned 
about  her  wages.  It  became  imperative  to  know 
what  would  happen  in  the  course  of  the  next  few 
days. 

"Well,"  said  she  more  amicably.  "I'm  for  the 
town." 

"Shopping?"  queried  Griggs. 

"Ordering  the  supper,"  she  told  him.  "What's 
your  fancy?" 

Bartholomew  owned  to  a  passion  for  trillibub. 


LADY  FORREST  AT  HOME         17 

Janet  sneered.  "We'd  have  the  gentry  take  this 
for  a  tripe  house!  Choose  something  that  don't 
stink,  man!  Onions,  indeed!" 

"Most  things  as  is  tasty  smells,"  mused  Griggs, 
scratching  one  eai.  "And  I  do  love  something 
tasty.  What  about  oysters,  miss?" 

Janet  signified  approval  and  invited  him  to  come 
carry  her  basket. 

"Can't  leave,  me  dear,"  Griggs  wagged  a  shabby 
head.  "I'm  in  possession,  an'  here  I  stays  till  the 
sale's  over.  Nothing's  to  be  took  away,  d'ye  see. 
I'm  responsible.  I  doubt  I  should  let  ye  take  a 
basket  strictly  speakin' — " 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  snapped  Janet.  "D'ye  ex- 
pect me  to  carry  oysters  in  my  apron?"  She 
flounced  off,  donned  cloak  and  hood  and  hurried 
in  to  the  town,  where  passing  an  apothecary's,  she 
developed  a  raging  toothache  and  dived  down  three 
steps  into  the  little  shop. 

"Something  to  make  you  sleep?"  said  the  as- 
sistant, leaning  solicitously  over  the  counter.  "Bet- 
ter let  me  draw  it,  miss,  and  ha'  done  with  it." 

"Oh,  'tis  but  a  cold,"  said  Janet,  her  hand  to 
her  cheek.  "I'll  take  two  powders,  please.  Do 
they  taste  badly?" 

"Put  'em  in  your  supper  beer  and  you'll  never 
know  you've  had  'em,"  he  assured  her. 

Dressed,  perfumed  and  painted,  Lady  Forrest 
went  on  a  tour  of  inspection  through  morning-room 
and  dining  room,  where  refreshments  were  spread 


1 8  MY  LADY  APRIL 

upon  long  tables,  and  servants,  hired  only  for  a 
few  hours  each  night,  waited  napkin  in  hand. 

The  rooms  set  aside  for  gaming  occupied  the 
whole  of  the  first  floor.  Lavinia  glanced  in  and 
found  Janet  distributing  new  packs  of  cards. 

•^Where's  that  man?"  she  inquired. 

The  abigail  looked  up.  "He's  had  his  supper 
and  he's  asleep  in  the  butler's  pantry,  m'lady." 

"Did  you  lock  him  in?" 

"No,  m'lady.  I  did  better.  He'd  ha'  kicked 
the  door  down  and  raised  a  monstrous  racket.  I 
put  a  sleeping  powder  in  his  ale.  He's  safe  till 
morning." 

Lady  Forrest  stopped  suddenly,  a  finger  at  her 
lip. 

"You're  certain  he'll  not  wake?" 

"Oh  la,  yes!"  returned  Janet.  "The  pottecary 
vowed  one  would  ensure  a  good  night's  rest.  I 
gave  him  two." 

"  'Tis  very  well.  I  shall  close  the  rooms  early 
to-night,  child.  My  head  aches.  You  needn't  sit 
up  for  me." 

"Thank  you,  m'lady." 

Lavinia  idly  picked  up  a  pack  of  cards,  cut,  and 
glanced  at  the  result.  The  Queen  of  Hearts.  Her 
fate  was  sealed. 

Oddly  at  ease  now  that  her  decision  was  made, 
she  left  the  gaming-rooms,  and  climbing  the  stair 
to  an  attic  bedchamber,  entered  without  ceremony. 

Her  daughter  Dorothy  stood  upon  a  chair  before 
the  toilet-table,  examining  her  slippered  feet  in  a 


LADY  FORREST  AT  HOME         19 

small  mirror,  and  turned  pettishly  as  Lady  Forrest 
came  in. 

"What  on  earth — ?"  began  Lavinia. 

Dorothy  shrugged  and  descended.  "If  I  am  to 
be  your  decoy  you  might  at  least  give  me  a  long 
glass,"  she  pouted.  "For  all  I  know  my  petti- 
coat's inches  below  my  gown,  and  half  the  urchins 
in  Bath  will  be  shouting  that  my  father  loves  me 
better  than  my  mother." 

Lavinia  winced  a  little.  "Janet  should  dress 
you." 

"Janet  neglects  me  shamefully.  When  can  I 
have  a  woman  of  my  own. 

'  'Tis  too  costly,  child,"  said  her  mother,  eyeing 
her.  "You're  exquisite.  Come,  control  your  tem- 
per, or  you'll  ruin  your  mouth.  There's  nothing 
lines  a  face  like  ill-humor.  Remember  that,  miss !" 

The  young  girl  lifted  a  candle  in  each  hand  and 
gazed  into  the  mirror,  scrutinizing  herself  as  though 
her  reflection  had  been  the  picture  of  a  third  per- 
son. 

A  fair-skinned,  oval  face  confronted  her;  golden 
hair  caught  up  in  distracting  curls,  frosted  with 
powder;  blue  eyes  shadowed  by  heavy  lashes;  a 
patch  below  a  dimpled  mouth. 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Forrest  complacently,  "you're 
the  prettiest  girl  in  Bath.  Make  the  most  of  your 
time,  child.  We  Bridlingtons  age  early." 

"O  me!"  cried  Dorothy.  "My  time,  forsooth! 
'Tis  little  chance  I  have.  I'm  nothing  more  than  a 
bait,  and  I'm  tired  of  it!  I  want — " 


20  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"You  want  a  master,  eh?"  sneered  her  mother, 
and  caught  her  wrist  in  thin,  cruel  fingers.  "Are 
you  so  enamored  of  your  glimpses  of  married  life 
that  you  want  to  rush  into  the  trap?  Little  fool! 
Now  attend — Sir  Julian's  nephew  will  be  at  the 
Rooms  to-night.  Ralph  Carew.  Remember  the 
name.  He  must  be  induced  to  play  here  to-mor- 
row. To-morrow !  You  understand  ?  What, 
have  I  bruised  your  wrist?  Well,  tie  a  black  rib- 
bon round  it,  'tis  the  last  fashion." 

Ignoring  Dorothy's  half-uttered  remonstrances, 
Lady  Forrest  sailed  downstairs,  telling  herself  that 
she  had  done  all  that  could  be  expected  of  her. 
She  had  secured  Dorothy's  future,  for  young  Carew 
could  not  fail  to  fall  captive  to  so  much  beauty  in 
distress. 

The  beauty  was  there  for  all  to  see:  the  distress, 
alas,  was  inevitable.  Lady  Forrest  had  no  inten- 
tion of  taking  a  grown  daughter  to  Vienna.  The 
chit  knew  her  world.  She  could  look  after  her- 
self. Lavinia  grudgingly  acknowledged  that  she 
must  leave  her  some  money., 

A  gathering  hum  of  talk  below  told  that  her 
doors  were  open,  but  she  sat  down  at  the  bureau, 
wrote  a  letter,  enclosed  some  gold,  sealed  it,  ad- 
dressed it  to  Dorothy  and  slipped  it  into  her  pocket. 
Then,  throwing  a  scarf  about  her  shoul- 
ders, she  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  aglow 
with  candle-light,  almost  impassable  for  chairs  and 
card-tables.  A  larger  table  was  set  in  the  farther 
room,  exposed  by  the  folding  doors;  and  habitues 


LADY  FORREST  AT  HOME         21 

were  already  hurrying  to  their  seats,  greeting  ac- 
quaintances, their  eyes  set  abstractedly. 

In  spite  of  herself,  she  shivered. 

It  was  as  though,  dead,  she  watched  her  world 
move  on  without  her.  Her  reign  in  Bath  was  over. 
After  to-night  her  candles  would  remain  unlit,  her 
rooms  empty.  Her  flight  would  cause  no  more 
than  a  surface  ripple  on  the  life  of  the  town. 
Shrugs,  leers,  a  half-uttered  sentence — and  she 
would  be  forgotten.  Another  would  start  a  gam- 
ing-house, defying  law  and  order.  Jealousy  of  her 
unknown  supplanter  sickened  her:  she  loved  the  life 
she  led,  the  little  power  she  wielded.  She  loved  the 
atmosphere  of  excitement,  of  risk,  of  delicious  un- 
certainty. It  was  hard  to  give  it  up  at  the  moment 
when  half  the  fashionable  world  of  Bath  flocked  to 
her  tables.  She  was  too  old  to  begin  all  over  again 
in  another  country. 

Almost  she  resolved  to  stay  on  and  brazen  matters 
out,  and  remembered  that  before  many  days  were 
over  the  furniture,  the  glass  and  china,  the  very 
clothes  she  wore  would  be  sold  to  pay  her  debts. 

Flight  was  unavoidable,  and  flight  with  Cassillis 
preferable  to  flight  alone.  She  waited  with  what 
patience  she  could  muster  until  her  guests  went  down 
to  supper;  and  then,  alone  among  the  disordered 
chairs,  she  faced  Cassillis. 

"What  now?"  he  asked.     "Have  you  decided?" 

"It  must  be  to-night,"  said  she,  composed,  pale 
beneath  her  rouge.  "There's  a  bailiff  in  the  house 
— wait!  I've  no  time  to  explain — my  woman's 


22  MY  LADY  APRIL 

drugged  him.  I'll  stop  the  play  at  half  after  ten, 
and  then — " 

"You'll  come!  I'll  have  a  chaise  under  the  big 
cedar  on  the  London  road  at  eleven.  I'll  to  my 
lodging,  and  pack.  We  must  get  away  before 
Dorothy  comes  home.  What'll  the  child  do?" 

"Oh,  I've  arranged  for  Dorothy,"  Lady  Forrest 
assured  him.  "Till  eleven!" 

They  separated  with  a  handclasp.  Mr.  Cassillis 
found  hat  and  cloak  and  let  himself  out  of  the  house. 

Lady  Forrest  sailed  down  to  supper. 


CHAPTER  III 

INTRODUCING   THE   HERO 

"y^NlR,"  said  young  Carew,  "your  very  good 
^^  health!" 

l^_X  The  old  man  seated  at  the  head  of  the 
shining  table  gazed  bleakly  up  at  the  young  man, 
bowing,  glass  in  hand ;  gazed,  smiled,  and  sighed. 

"Thank'ee,  lad.  Thank'ee.  But  don't  wish  me 
many  happy  returns  o'  the  day.  'Tis  not  to  be 
desired.  Eighty !  Great  heaven,  and  it  seems  but 
yesterday  that  I  was  eighteen!"  He  fell  silent, 
twirling  his  empty  glass  by  its  twisted  stem. 

Young  Carew  stretched  cut  his  hand  impulsively 
and  pressed  his  uncle's  withered  fingers.  "Gad, 
sir !  You  bring  the  tears  into  my  throat,"  he  said. 
"I  regard  you  as  a  second  father.  I — I  can't  lose 
you — yet." 

Sir  Julian  grinned.  "You  managed  to  exist  a 
couple  o'  years  without  me." 

"Only  because  you  refused  to  come,  sir!"  ex- 
claimed Ralph,  flushing. 

"Pho!  The  Grand  Tour  at  seventy-seven!  I'd 
ha'  been  damnably  in  your  way,  lad.  There,  I 
was  but  plaguing  you.  You're  a  good  boy,  but  how 
goes  the  song? 

23 


24  MY  LADY  APRIL 

'Crabbed  age  and  youth — ' 

[Let's  see.     You  must  be  three  and  twenty?" 

"Twenty-four,  sir." 

"Twenty- four.  Gad,  you've  all  life  before  you. 
And  heart-whole,  eh  ?  Ha,  Batlh'll  soon  mend  that ! 
Running  over  with  pretty  maids.  You  can  take 
your  pick  of  a  posy.  We'll  have  you  wed  'fore 
the  year's  out." 

The  prospect  did  not  seem  to  appeal  to  young 
Carew.  "You  never  married,  sir,"  he  began. 

Sir  Julian  moved  uneasily  in  his  great  chair. 
"No,  lad,  no.  I  never  married.  But  'tis  the  only 
proper  life  for  a  man — or  woman  either,  for  that 
matter.  It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone.  Ah, 
you  love  your  freedom,  but  wait  till  you  face  a 
lonely  old  age.  You  must  do  better  than  I.  I'll 
live  to  dandle  your  son,  please  God." 

"I'll  endeavor  to  oblige  you,  Uncle,"  laughed 
Ralph.  "But  there's  no  haste,  is  there?" 

His  uncle  glanced  at  him.  "No,  no  haste.  Still, 
I'd  like  to  see  ye  wed.  Well,  ha'  ye  seen  aught  o' 
Val?  I  bid  him  dine  with  us,  but  it  seems  he  has 
forgot." 

"No,  I've  not  met  with  him  as  yet,"  replied 
Ralph.  "How  does  he  spend  his  time?  He  ap- 
pears to  have  no  interests.  I — made  inquiries — 
but—" 

"Devil  take  me  if  I  understand  the  fellow!"  cried 
Sir  Julian  irritably.  "He  comes  and  he  goes  as 
the  whim  seize0  him.  In  and  out  o'  the  house 


INTRODUCING  THE  HERO        25 

every  day  for  a  week,  and  then  never  a  sight  of 
him  for  month  on  end.  And  then  one  day  he 
lounges  in  as  though  he  could  scarce  drag  one  foot 
after  t'other,  and  sprawls  all  over  the  furniture  in 
most  unseemly  fashion  for  a  man  of  breeding.  And 
never  a  word  of  explanation  or  apology.  Strange  ? 
Rat  me,  I  think  he's  a  fool,  or  mad!  Raymond 
was  crazy  to  take  a  foreigner  to  wife!" 

"He  was  named  at  the  chocolate  house  in  my 
presence,"  said  Ralph.  "I  mentioned  our  relation- 
ship and  asked — er — where  he  could  be  found.  If 
you'll  believe  me,  sir,  the  room  positively  shouted 
with  laughter.  I  wondered — " 

Sir  Julian  condemned  his  kinsman  feature  by 
feature :  swore  he  was  no  Carew  to  make  the  name 
a  byword  and  a  laughing-stock:  thumped  angrily 
on  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  clenched  fists  upon 
which  the  knuckles  stood  out  whitely:  and  was 
with  some  difficulty  soothed  by  young  Carew  who  be- 
came a  little  alarmed  at  his  uncle's  unbridled  rage, 
and  strove  to  lead  his  thoughts  into  another  channel. 

"D'ye  go  to  the  ball  to-night?"  asked  Sir  Julian 
at  length,  sipping  his  wine  and  leaning  back  still 
flushed  with  his  recent  vehemence. 

"Not  if  you'd  like  me  to  remain,  sir."  Ralph 
shot  a  furtive  glance  at  the  tall  clock  in  the  corner. 

"Pho!  No.  I'm  no  spoil  sport!"  declared  Sir 
Julian.  "Come  now,  what  d'ye  think  o'  the  fight 
to-morrow  ?  What's  this  I  hear  of  a  boxing  gypsy  ?" 

"Merodach?  Faith,  I've  not  seen  him,  sir.  I 
know  nothing  but  gossip.  The  odds  were  in  his 


26  MY  LADY  APRIL 

favor  in  Orange  Grove  this  morning,  but  being 
new  come  to  Bath  I'm  all  at  sea.  From  what  I 
could  gather  the  other's  the  safe  man." 

"Brooke?"  mused  Sir  Julian.  "Ah,  he  put  up  a 
good  fight  five  years  ago.  I  doubt  he's  too  old  for  it 
now.  Well,  Harris,  what  is  it?" 

The  major-domo  bowed,  holding  the  door.  "Mr. 
Valerius,  sir,  to  pay  his  respects." 

The  baronet's  heavy  gray  eyebrows  drew  together 
as  a  pale  figure  lounged  into  the  circle  of  candle- 
light :  a  tall  exquisite  clad  in  creamy  satin,  fair  hair 
falling  in  curls  about  his  powdered  cheeks. 

"What,  candles  ?"  said  he  in  some  surprise.  "  'Tis 
still  daylight — " 

"I  prefer  to  dine  in  private,"  grumbled  Sir  Julian. 
"That  Forrest  woman  across  the  way  is  for  ever 
peering  at  me  from  the  windows.  Shameless  bag- 
gage! I  draw  my  curtains  'fore  I  sit  down. 
What,  sir !  I  bid  ye  dine  with  me  and  here  ye  come 
nigh  two  hours  late.  An't  my  table  dainty  enough 
to  suit  your  stomach?"  He  snatched  his  fingers 
away  as  his  nephew  bent  to  kiss  them.  "Od  rot 
ye,  man!  I'll  not  have  your  foreign  tricks!  Shake 
hands!" 

"Sir,  I  tender  a  thousand  apologies — " 

"Pho!     One's  enough,  one's  enough." 

"  'Twas  impossible  to  dine,  I — 

"Then  ye'll  wine.     Harris,  another  glass." 

Valerius  Carew  waved  the  servant  away.  "I  pro- 
test, sir,  my — my  doctor  positively  forbids  it."  He 
sank  into  a  chair,  a  laced  kerchief  at  his  lips. 


INTRODUCING  THE  HERO        27 

"Zoons,  Val,  are  ye  ill?"  quoth  his  uncle  testily. 
"What's  a  glass  o'  port  more  or  less?  Ye  look 
hale  enough!" 

"Appearances,  my  dear  sir,"  drawled  Valerius, 
putting  long  legs  across  the  seat  of  another  chair, 
"appearances  are  not  always  to  be  relied  upon." 
His  languid  eyelids  flickered :  a  smile  twitched  at  the 
corner  of  his  fine  mouth.  He  looked  across  at  his 
cousin.  "Well,  coz,  and  so  we  meet  at  last !  You 
must  have  left  England  as  I  landed.  Ah,  the  Grand 
Tour?  And  you  return  a  polished  rolling  stone! 
No  moss  about  you,  Ralph,  eh?  I  like  your  taste 
in  waistcoats.  Paris  ?  Gad,  what  a  hole  this  town 
must  seem  after  Paris?  Positively  a  hole!  A 
wallow  full  of  wallowing  fat  cattle!" 

"Don't  ye  sneer  at  Bath,  sir!"  expostulated  Sir 
Julian,  thumping  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"O  dear  sir,  Truth's  at  the  bottom  o'  the  well. 
I  looked  in  at  the  Pump-Room  this  morning 
and  the  King's  Bath  was  full — positively  full  of — 
of  prodigies  in  yellow  calico,  wallowing.  Faugh! 
A  fearsome  spectacle!  What  brings  you  to  Bath, 
Ralph?  Rheumatism?" 

"I  came  post  from  London  to  congratulate  Sir 
Julian,"  said  Ralph  coldly,  staring  with  ill-concealed 
disgust  at  his  foppish  kinsman. 

"Congratulate?  O  lud,  and  I  forgot!  Sir,  a 
thousand  pardons!  What  a  moongazer  I  am!" 
He  took  the  old  man's  hand  and  shook  it  warmly. 
"Happy  returns,  Uncle!  And  may  your  dearest 
wishes  come  home  to  roost!" 


28  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Thank'ee,  Val.  Thank'ee."  Sir  Julian  thawed 
a  little.  "Well,  ha'  ye  news  o'  the  fight?" 

Valerius  was  obviously  at  a  loss.  "Fight?  Oh, 
to  be  sure.  I  hear  Sir  Harry's  bird  won  him  close 
upon  three  hundred  guineas.  Killed  two  cocks 
as  dead  as  mutton,  and  so  mauled  another  that 
they  wrung  its  neck.  Oh,  a  very  devil,  I  assure 
you." 

"Zoons,  I'm  not  talking  of  cocking!  The  fight, 
man!  The  big  fight  to-morrow.  Brooke  against 
some  dark  horse  of  a  gypsy.  What  d'ye  make  of 
it?" 

"Oh,"  drawled  Valerius.  "Boxing?  Gad,  I'm 
no  oracle."  He  examined  his  nails  with  care, 
breathed  upon  them,  polished  them  with  a  laced 
kerchief,  and  broke  into  a  high-pitched  giggle. 
"What  d'ye  think  ?  Old  Lady  Kirkpatrick  lost  her 
snuff  box  at  the  Rooms  last  night,  and  when  'twas 
found  'twas  full  of — " 

"Od's  bud!"  Sir  Julian  thumped  angrily  upon 
both  arms  of  his  chair.  "One'd  think  you  was  a 
lady's  maid !"  he  roared.  "Tittle-tattling  gossip,  and 
never  a  care  for  a  gentleman's  amusements  !  I  dare 
swear  you  never  went  near  the  cocking  match?" 

"You're  right,  sir.  A  bloody  business,"  returned 
his  nephew  wearily.  "I  abhor  blood." 

"Sure,  I  think  your  veins  run  milk!"  jeered  the 
old  man. 

"So?     What  says  our  divine  Will? 


INTRODUCING  THE  HERO        29 

'.  .  .  Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature; 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
To  catch  the  nearest  way  .  .  .' " 

"Tcha!"  sputtered  Sir  Julian.  "Hamlet  was  a 
fool,  and  mad  into  the  bargain!" 

"Indeed?  You  amaze  me,  sir.  But  as  it  chances 
I  was  speaking  of  Macbeth,  who  was  neither  a  fool 
nor  mad,  but  merely — hagdriven." 

Disconcerted,  Sir  Julian  helped  himself  to  wine 
and  pushed  the  decanter  toward  Ralph.  "Another 
glass  'fore  ye  start  for  the  ball,  lad.  What,  no 
more?  Well,  well,  'tis  wise  to  keep  a  cool  head 
among  all  this  gallimaufry.  'Tis  a  queer  crowd 
gathers  here,  and  ye  can't  be  too  careful." 

"I'll  heed  your  warning,  uncle,"  laughed  the 
youngest  Carew.  "But  sure,  after  two  years  of 
foreign  travel  a  man  should  be  able  to  take  care  of 
himself.  Are  you  coming,  coz  ?" 

"Where?  To  the  Rooms?  Heaven  forbid! 
And  as  it  happens  I  have — other  engagements. 
The  stars  in  their  courses  fight  for  me,  Ralph. 
Fare  ye  well." 

For  a  long  time  after  the  younger  cousin  had  gone 
Sir  Julian  remained  sunk  in  his  chair,  glowering  at 
his  heir,  and  thwarted  affection  embittered  his  next 
words. 

"Gad !"  said  he  below  his  breath.  "That  the  in- 
heritance should  descend  to  such  a  booby!" 


30  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"You  can  break  the  entail,  sir,"  suggested  Va- 
lerius, apparently  waking  from  a  doze. 

"Pho!     You've  sharp  ears,  young  man!" 

"I  thank  God,"  returned  his  nephew  piously. 

Sir  Julian  grunted,  following  the  carved  spirals 
of  his  chair  with  nervous  fingers.  "Come,  come!" 
he  quavered  at  length.  "You're  young,  Val. 
Shake  off  this  damnable  sloth.  I  vow  I  half  believe 
you  pose!  We  Carews — gad,  we  have  our  faults, 
but  they're  of  the  hot-blooded  sort.  None  of  us 
has  been  the  brainless  ass  you  appear.  By  heaven, 
sir,  I'd  rather  see  you  a  rake  than — than  a  flaccid 
nonentity!" 

Sir  Julian  became  unprintable.  It  was  a  full- 
blooded  age,  and  he  was  never  one  to  mince  words. 

A  flush  stole  up  his  nephew's  cheeks  beneath  their 
mask  of  powder,  the  muscles  of  his  jaws  drew  tense. 

"What,  have  I  stirred  you?"  cried  the  baronet, 
and  chuckled. 

"No,  faith,"  drawled  Valerius,  stretching.  "I 
blush  for  your  language,  sir." 

Sir  Julian  became  almost  apoplectic  in  his  wrath; 
shook  feeble  hands  in  the  air ;  called  heaven  to  wit- 
ness he'd  break  the  entail ;  choked,  gasped,  and  fell 
back  in  his  chair  clawing  at  his  cravat. 

Harris  came  in  answer  to  a  clamoring  bell. 

"See  to  Sir  Julian,"  said  Valerius.  "He's— 
excited,  Harris.  I  strongly  disapprove  of  excite- 
ment. Is  he  often  so?" 

Harris  went  to  the  dresser  and  returned  with  a 
restorative,  motioning  the  young  man  to  be  silent. 


INTRODUCING  THE  HERO        31 

He  drew  back  the  curtains  and  threw  up  a  window ; 
and  presently,  under  his  ministrations  Sir  Julian 
opened  bloodshot  eyes,  coughed,  drained  the 
glass,  and  scowled  upon  his  kinsman. 

"You  came  near  finishing  me  with  your  non- 
sense," he  muttered.  "Go  away!  Harris,  send 
him  away.  I'm  too  old  to  be  badgered.  What, 
sir!  You're  laughing  at  me.  I  swear  you  laugh 
at  me.  No  Carew  was  ever  a  milksop.  Get  ye 
gone!  Go  to  the  devil  so  that  you  find  your  man- 
hood, I  care  not !  Harris,  send  for  Robertson.  I'll 
break  the  entail  .  .  .  demmit,  Ralph — Ralph's  the 
lad!  He  shall  have—" 

His  head  fell  back  and  Valerius  caught  him  round 
the  shoulders.  "Go  fetch  a  doctor!"  he  said. 
"Get  his  bed  warmed." 

Old  Harris  shambled  away,  discovered  the  foot- 
men at  cards  in  the  pantry,  and  sent  one  for  the 
doctor:  woke  the  drowsing  housekeeper  and  bade 
her  fill  the  warming-pan :  and  having  given  a  dozen 
orders  to  the  startled  servants,  climbed  the  stairs 
again,  panting  a  little  in  his  haste.  He  might  have 
been  out  of  the  room  some  twenty  minutes. 

Sir  Julian  lay  dead  upon  the  floor  beside  his  desk. 
There  was  no  sign  of  Valerius  Carew. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DECOY 

A  CROWD  of  chairmen  carrying  sedans 
blocked  the  flagged  court  before  the  doors 
of  the  Assembly  Rooms,  jostling  each  other 
to  the  vast  inconvenience  of  their  passengers,  who 
cursed  or  shrieked  as  became  their  sex.  Running 
footmen  elbowed  a  way  through  the  crush  for  their 
masters;  link  boys  hung  about,  awaiting  engage- 
ments as  escort  when  the  ball  should  be  over. 
Loungers  gathered  to  watch  the  quality,  for  the 
Abbey  clock  had  but  just  told  six,  and  spring  sun- 
light shamed  the  candles  that  flickered  in  the  sconces 
of  the  ballroom. 

White  hat  tucked  beneath  one  arm,  an  ancient 
dandy  leaned  upon  his  cane;  quizzing  new-comers; 
greeting  acquaintances ;  frowning  majestically  upon 
any  who  did  not  satisfy  his  fastidious  taste. 

Beaux  minced  in ;  bowed  to  the  King  of  Bath  and 
raised  square  glasses  to  scan  the  seats  against  the 
walls,  eyes  alert  for  an  alluring  glance  from  the 
beauties  who  swam  to  and  fro,  hoops  swaying,  fans 
accentuating  trifles  of  gossip,  tit-bits  of  scandal. 

Boyishly  eager,  young  Carew  made  his  way 
through  the  throng.  Women  appraised  his  figure; 

32 


THE  DECOY  33 

men  discussed  the  fashion  of  his  brocaded  coat; 
shy  girls,  peering  from  the  shelter  of  dowagers' 
wings,  hoped  he  would  notice  them  and  beg  the 
favor  of  a  dance. 

Dorothy  Forrest  caught  his  name  and  turned  to 
look  at  him  as  he  was  presented  to  old  Lady  Kirk- 
patrick;  and  young  Carew  murmured  inane  replies 
to  inquiries  after  relatives  whom  he  seldom  saw  and 
was  only  too  glad  to  forget,  following  the  girl  with 
eyes  that  glowed. 

Gad,  this  was  Bath!  An  English  rose.  Deli- 
cious memories  of  the  dark-skinned  beauties  of  his 
travels  faded  into  mere  pleasant  recollection. 

"Young  man!"  Lady  Kirkpatrick's  fan  upon  his 
wrist  made  him  start.  "Attend  me,  if  you  please. 
Your  wits  are  wool-gathering.  'Tis  dangerous 
sport  in  Bath.  The  unwary  lamb  goes  off  shorn!" 
Her  puckered  eyes  beneath  their  bushy  brows  re- 
garded him  mischievously.  "And  how  doth  your 
great-aunt  Sophia?" 

"Faith,  ma'm,  I  believe  she's  well,"  answered 
young  Carew,  aware  to  his  finger-tips  that  the  rose- 
pink  girl  was  watching  him  from  the  shelter  of 
her  fan.  "That  is,  I — I — gad,  I  recollect  now,  she 
died  last  year  while  I  was  in  Venice.  I'd  not  seen 
her  for  an  age,  ma'm.  I'd  forgot." 

"And  your  cousin  Valerius?  He's  not  here  to- 
night?" ' 

"No,  ma'm.  I  believe  he  has  other  engage- 
ments." 

"Ha!     A    strange  creature.     Tell    me,    does   he 


34  MY  LADY  APRIL 

frequent  that  woman  Forrest's  rooms?  A  bag- 
gage! What,  han't  ye  heard  of  'em?  Yon- 
der's  the  daughter,  out  hunting  game  for  her 
mother's  table.  He,  he !  A  pretty  pair !  Take  an 
old  woman's  advice  and  keep  clear  of  'em,  my 
dear." 

Young  Carew  raised  an  astounded  face.  "What, 
ma'm?  That  beautiful  child — a  decoy?" 

"O  me!  that  these  things  should  be!"  jeered  the 
dowager  with  a  grimace.  "I  dare  swear  that  in 
fancy  you  was  leading  her  to  the  altar.  Well,  fore- 
warned is  forearmed.  Keep  out  of  her  clutches. 
A  vampire !  Nash  should  forbid  her  the  place,  but 
he's  the  worst  gambler  o'  the  lot.  Well,  you  don't 
want  to  listen  to  my  croakings.  D'ye  dance?  Let 
me  present  ye  to  my  niece.  Sarah !  Sarah !  Where 
the  devil  has  the  child  got?" 

Miss  Sarah  crept  from  a  back  seat  and  curtsied 
to  the  shining  floor;  and  taking  his  due  place  in 
the  order  of  dancers,  young  Carew  did  his  duty, 
walking  a  couple  of  minuets  before  he  escaped,  his 
blue  eyes  roving  in  search  of  the  rosy  goddess  so 
brutally  maligned. 

He  found  her  presently  in  a  smaller  room,  drink- 
ing tea  beneath  a  glass  chandelier,  and  for  an  in- 
stant he  stood  wondering  if  the  picture  she  made 
was  fortuitous  or  designed:  she  was  as  well  placed 
as  a  statuette  in  some  connoisseur's  gallery.  The 
soft  light  of  the  candles  shone  like  an  aureole  in 
her  glimmering  hair;  her  eyes  were  shadowy  under 
their  veil  of  thick  lashes;  her  rosy  gown  seemed 


THE  DECOY  35 

almost  to  radiate  light.  He  could  not  believe  that 
she  was  painted. 

Half  a  dozen  men  surrounded  her,  ogling,  flat- 
tering, thrall  to  her  dainty  loveliness,  intrigued  by 
her  very  imperturbation.  Jealous  of  the  new- 
comer's appearance  they  gathered  closer,  turning 
their  backs  upon  Carew,  attitudinizing,  barricading 
Dorothy  with  lifted  shoulders  and  gesticulating 
hands. 

Carew  smiled  and  awaited  his  opportunity,  and 
as  he  watched  there  came  a  hair-raising  crack,  one 
of  the  supporting  chains  broke,  and  the  great  can- 
delabrum tilted  suddenly  to  one  side  and  hung  sway- 
ing, glass  lusters  clashing,  a  cloud  of  lighted  candles 
falling  like  meteors. 

The  beaux  beneath  sprang  backward,  swearing, 
shouting,  protecting  themselves  from  the  flying  fire 
with  upflung  elbows  and  tricorn  hats.  But  before 
Dorothy  Forrest  could  rise  Carew  burst  through 
the  ring,  lifted  her  bodily  and  bore  her  off. 

It  was  all  over  before  those  in  the  ball-room 
realized  the  danger.  Servants  put  out  the  guttering 
candles,  cleared  the  room  and  locked  the  doors  for 
fear  the  candelabrum  should  crash  to  the  floor. 
Dancing  continued;  tea  and  cards  claimed  their  de- 
votees. 

Beyond  the  locked  anteroom  Ralph  Carew  paused 
on  the  threshold;  and  unwilling  to  go  out  into  the 
street  with  the  girl  in  his  arms,  turned  aside  into  a 
smaller  room,  laid  her  on  a  couch  and  threw  open  a 
window. 


36  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Presently  she  sat  upright,  smiling  faintly,  her 
hands  busy  with  her  disordered  gown. 

"O  lud!"  said  she.     "I'm  all  over  grease!" 

Carew  looked  blank.  "You  might  have  been 
burnt  to  death,  madam/'  he  began,  piqued. 

"True.  I  might.  But  for  your  heroic  conduct, 
fair  sir.  You  think  I  should  be  at  you  on  my 
knees,  groveling  gratitude?"  Adorably  mischie- 
vous, she  teased  him,  chin  tilted,  eyes  dancing  behind 
lowered  lashes. 

"Give  thanks  to  heaven,  madam." 

"O  lud,  I  do — I  do!  A  burnt  skin  is  such  an 
abomination!"  She  stood  up  and  looked  him  in 
the  face;  her  voice  dropped  a  full  tone.  "I  thank 
you  too,  sir,  with  all  my  heart."  She  took  a  rose 
from  her  bodice  and  brushed  it  with  her  lips.  "  'Tis 
near  crushed  to  death,  but  it  smells  all  the  sweeter 
for  that.  'Tis  yours,  sir,  if  you  will."  She  held 
it  out  to  him  with  fingers  that  shook  a  little  in  spite 
of  her  sang-froid. 

Young  Carew  took  flower  and  hand  and  all,  and 
bent  his  lips  to  them. 

"La,  sir,  how  you  tremble!"  laughed  the  girl. 
"There  was  no  danger,  was  there?" 

"  'Tis  in  the  touch  of  you,"  he  told  her;  and  had 
her  in  his  arms  before  she  guessed  his  intent. 

Dorothy   Forrest   released   herself   with   dignity. 

"Keep  your  distance,  sir.  What  though  you 
saved  my  life?  You  have  no  right — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Forrest,"  said  Ralph, 
and  bowed. 


THE  DECOY  37 

She  pondered  him,  a  finger  at  her  lip.  "You 
know  my  name?  O  la!  half  Bath  knows  my  name. 
My  reputation — save  the  mark! — is  at  the  mercy 
of  those  old  tabbies  in  the  card-room.  No  doubt 
Lady  Kirkpatrick  solemnly  warned  you  that  I  was 
a  decoy?  O  lud,  what  a  horrid  tale  for  innocent 
ears!  And  you  believed  her,  and  thought  me  law- 
ful prey—" 

"  'Fore  God,  I  did  not !"  cried  Carew,  shocked. 
"Yet  you'd  have  kissed  me?" 
"Gad,  ma'm,  I'm  not  a  plaster  saint!     What  man 
with  you  in  his  arms  could — " 

"Pho !"  sneered  Miss  Forrest.  "  Tis  no  more 
than  propinquity!"  And  sank  again  upon  the 
couch,  her  fan  at  her  chin;  her  eyes,  mischievously 
alluring,  lifted  to  his. 

Being  no  plaster  saint,  young  Carew  did  as  most 
men  would  have  done:  seated  himself  beside  her, 
took  possession  of  her  hand,  said  whatever  sweet 
nonsense  came  first  to  his  tongue;  declared  that 
he  must  see  her  again  next  day;  begged  for  a 
tryst,  blue  eyes  alight  and  pulses  hammering  in  his 
throat. 

In  spite  of  herself  Dorothy  was  stirred,  roused 
from  her  studied  apathy  by  his  impetuous  wooing. 
At  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  felt  she  still  cherished 
her  old  dream  of  a  Fairy  Prince  who  would  come 
one  day  and  carry  her  off  from  the  loathsome  life 
she  was  compelled  to  lead.  Beneath  his  ardor  the 
cloak  of  her  indifference  fell  away  like  the  split 
sheath  of  a  flower;  and  timidly,  hesitating  on  the 


38  MY  LADY  APRIL 

brink   of  passion,   she  blossomed  under  his  very 
eyes. 

Young  Carew  was  aware  only  of  her  rising  color, 
her  catching  breath ;  that  the  child's  soul  was  open- 
ing like  a  rose  he  did  not  dream ;  he  saw  no  more 
than  a  pretty  girl,  shielding  he*,  flushed  cheeks  with 
a  gauze  fan. 

Presently  into  their  dimly  lit  retreat  came  a  serv- 
ant seeking  him :  coughed,  muttered  an  apology  and 
backed  away. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Carew,  rising. 

"Mr.  Carew,  sir?  A  man  from  Sir  Julian  Ca- 
rew's  to  see  you.  Most  urgent,  sir,  or  I'd  not  have 
ventured — hem !  Been  looking  for  you  all  over  the 
Rooms,  sir,  for  the  last  half-hour." 

"Bid  him  wait.  I'll  see  him  in  a  moment." 
Ralph  turned  to  Dorothy  Forrest.  "Where  do  you 
live?  Where  can  I  meet  you?  Give  me  time  and 
place  and  I'll—" 

"No."  She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I'll  be  frank 
with  you,  Mr.  Carew.  I — I  was  sent  here  to-night 
to — to  make  certain  that  you'd  come  to  the  house 
to-morrow.  My  parents  keep  a — a  faro  table.  It 
is  all  true — I — I  am  their  decoy."  Her  voice  broke, 
she  held  him  off  with  resolute,  trembling  little  hands. 
"No!  You  must  never  see  me  again — I — I'll  not 
lure  you  to  your  ruin." 

He  laughed  and  took  her.  "Why,  sweeting,  I'm 
no  pigeon  to  be  plucked  at  will!  I've  seen  some- 
thing of  life.  I  can  be  trusted  alone!" 


THE  DECOY  39 

"No!"  she  insisted.  "No.  Believe  me,  sir,  I— I 
like  you  too  well  to  have  a  hand  in  your  undoing. 
Forget  that  we  ever  met.  I — I  beseech  you,  let  me 
go — the  servant — " 

Footsteps  in  the  corridor  sent  them  yards  apart, 
flushed,  a  little  dizzy. 

The  girl  escaped  through  a  farther  door  that  led 
to  the  ladies'  dressing-rooms;  the  man  turned  to 
face  his  uncle's  major-domo,  gray  to  the  gills,  breath- 
less, perspiring. 

"Why,  Harris?"  cried  Carew.     What's  amiss?" 

"More  than  I  like  to  tell,  sir."  The  old  man  laid 
a  shaking  hand  upon  his  arm.  "After  you  left, 
Mr.  Ralph,  Sir  Julian  quarreled  with  Mr.  Valerius. 
I  heard  high  words,  sir,  an'  I  an't  ashamed  to  say 
I  listened  at  the  door,  bein'  nervous  for  Sir  Julian, 
sir,  on  account  of  his  heart.  The  doctor  warned  us 
'twould  come  if  he  got  roused,  an'  roused  he  were, 
Mr.  Ralph.  Fair  ragin'.  The  bell  went  fit  to 
deave  ye,  an'  I  goes  in.  'Send  for  Robertson/  he 
gasps.  'Demme,'  says  he,  Til  break  the  entail, 
Ralph's  the  lad  for  me.'  An'  then  he  falls  a-chokin' 
an'  a-clawin'  at  the  air.  I  give  him  a  draught  we 
had  by  us,  an'  went  below-stairs  to  send  one  o'  the 
men  for  the  doctor.  An'  when  I  got  back,  sir,  Sir 
Julian  were  lyin'  dead  an'  Mr.  Valerius  was — gone." 

"Good  gad,  Harris !"  cried  young  Carew.  "What 
d'ye  mean?  Valerius  ran  away  and  left  him  to  die 
alone  ?  The  chicken-hearted  cur !" 

Harris  wagged  a  mournful  head.  "I  wish  I 
could  think  so,  Mr.  Ralph.  I  wish  to  heaven  I 


40  MY  LADY  APRIL 

could  believe  it  But  facts  is  facts,  an'  'tis  a  fact 
I  heard  'em  a-quarrelin'." 

"Zoons,  man!  What  are  you  hinting?  Speak 
out!" 

The  servant  dropped  his  voice  to  a  hoarse  whis- 
per. 'I  thinks,  Mr.  Ralph,  I  thinks  Mr.  Valerius — 
made  quite  sure  Sir  Julian  couldn't  break  the  entail 
afore  he  went  an'  took  hisself  off!" 

"Murder?"  whispered  young  Carew. 


CHAPTER  V 

BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN 

THE  Globe  Inn  in  King's  Mead  Square  rang 
with  shouts  and  laughter  and  all  the  jolly 
uproar  of  men  gathered  for  a  merrymak- 
ing. Piles  of  dirty  plates  encumbered  the  dresser, 
empty  bottles  lay  heaped  in  corners  of  the  room,  and 
round  the  table  sprawled  a  score  of  young  bloods 
intent  on  making  a  night  of  it. 

Flushed  with  wine;  pulling  at  long  clays;  scrib- 
bling notes  of  incredible  wagers,  these  patrons  of 
sport  hammered  on  the  board  with  pewter  pots  and 
howled  for  a  speech,  until,  urged  from  behind  by 
eager  partisans,  a  tall  man  rose  in  response. 

Of  all  in  that  smoke-wreathed  room,  he  alone  was 
sober  and  master  of  his  tongue:  clad  in  a  shabby, 
carefully  brushed  suit  of  brown  cloth,  a  blue  necker- 
chief knotted  about  his  throat,  he  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment smiling  absently,  leaning  on  strong,  brown 
hands  spread  upon  the  table. 

"Speech!"  bawled  Sir  Harry  Kirkpatrick  from 
the  chair.  "Speech!  Silence  for  the  gypsy !  Hie! 
Silence,  gen'lemen,  I  beg.  Damn  it,  be  quiet !  Now, 
on  wi'  ye,  Merodach." 

They  fell  silent,  staring  owl-fashion  at  the  lean 
41 


42  MY  LADY  APRIL 

young  face  above  them.  The  gypsy  laughed  and 
stood  erect,  tucking  his  thumbs  into  the  armholes  of 
his  striped  waistcoat." 

"Ecod,  gents  and  lordings,"  said  he,  white  teeth 
flashing  in  a  wide  smile.  "You  know  well  enough 
I  can't  speechify!  An'  if  I  could,  what  should  I 
say?  'Thank'ee,  lords  and  gentles,  for  a  meal  I've 
scarce  tasted,  and  wine  I've  not  drunk.'  Cock's 
blood,  what  it  is  to  be  in  training!" 

They  howled  with  laughter  as  at  some  stupendous 
joke :  swore  it  was  a  burning  shame :  vowed  they'd 
make  up  for  it  once  he  had  won  the  fight :  promised 
him  a  carouse  next  night  and  lifted  slopping  tanL-- 
ards  to  his  very  good  health. 

"Gen'lemen,  I'll  be  givin'  ye  a  sentiment.  The 
true  British  spirit,  which,  like  purest  gold,  has  no 
alloy!"  Mr.  Larry  Cavanagh,  swaying  on  his  feet, 
was  interrupted  by  a  shout  from  the  top  of  the  table, 
where  a  red-faced  little  man  expostulated,  gestic- 
ulating violently. 

"My  very  words,  Mr.  Cavanagh.  My  own  ex- 
pression! You're  a  dcmmed  plagiarist — " 

"I  protest,  sir  n-not  in  the  least,  upon  me  soul!" 
declared  Larry,  flourishing  a  full  glass.  "Merely 
quoted,  Captain  Godfrey.  Merely  quoted.  A  man 
may  quote,  I  presume,  without  offense?" 

"Demme,  sir!  You  gave  it  as  your  sentiment, 
and  you'll  find  it  in  my  pamphlet  on  the  Champions, 
my  peroration,  sir !  Demme,  name  your  friend,  Mr. 
Cavanagh,  and  my  representative  shall  wait  upon 
him  in  the  morning.  What's  that?  Nash  be 


BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN    43 

demmed  for  an  infernal  little  milksop !  Can't  a  man 
fight  if  he—" 

"We  carry  no  swords  in  Bath,  sir,"  interposed 
Cavanagh  eagerly.  "But  faith,  mine's  rustin'  in 
me  lodgin',  an'  I — " 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,  ha'  done!"  Sir  Harry 
Kirkpatrick  thrust  down  the  pugnacious  little  soldier 
and  called  for  order.  "As  Chairman  on  this — 
f'licitous  occasion,  I  must — positively  I  must  insist 
on  peace.  Shall  we  in — hie — infringe  the  pre — pre- 
rogative of  our  champion  Merodach,  by — by  cour- 
renancing  a  perry  quarrel  on  the  very  eve  of  his  big 
fight?  Hie!  Perish — I  say — perish  the  thought! 
Larry,  your  hand.  Captain,  yours.  Gen'lemen,  a — 
a  sublime  sen'iment  surras — hie !  surras  we  have  jus' 
heard  expressed,  belongs  to — the  posterity — " 

Cheers  drowned  his  voice.  The  Captain  was  un- 
derstood to  accept  the  explanation.  Mr.  Cavanagh 
pledged  him  handsomely  and  expressed  a  burning 
desire  to  purchase  a  dozen  copies  of  the  Captain's 
immortal  work. 

Through  the  genial  hubbub  that  filled  the  room 
broke  the  name  of  Valerius  Carew. 

"Gad,  it's  a  queer  fish !"  said  one. 

"His  young  coz  seemed  anxious  to  behold  him! 
First  person  I've  e'er  met  who  wasn't  flying  in 
t'other  direction.  A  bore?  Gad  save  me,  Revell, 
Carew'd  bore  the  Sphinx!  He  han't  a  word  for  a 
friend  nor  a  blow  for  an  enemy  nor — stap  me !  nor 
an  eye  for  a  wench!" 

"And  his  cousin  wanted  to  meet  him,  eh?" 


44  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Yes.  Told  me  he'd  never  set  eyes  on  Val.  It 
seemed  deuced  odd." 

"Oh,  Raymond  Carew  wed  a  nigger — well  then, 
a  foreigner,  and  old  Sir  Antony  refused  to  meet  her. 
So  they  lived  abroad.  Valerius  han't  been  in  Eng- 
land long  and  the  youngker's  but  just  back  from 
Germany — " 

"Paris!  Seen  his  clothes?  Oh,  he  posted  hell- 
for-leather  from  town  to  kiss  dear  nunkie's  hands 
and  wish  him  long  life." 

"Pshaw!     He's  eighty!" 

"Just.  The  lad  knows  which  side  his  bread's  but- 
tered." 

"But  Valerius  inherits,  he's — " 

"An'  do  ye  say  so?"  Mr.  Cavanagh  cocked  an 
eyebrow.  "Do  ye  say  so,  indeed?  Faith,  time'll 
show." 

"Where's  young  Carew  to-night?  An't  he  inter- 
ested in  sport?  Old  Carew'd  stake  the  last  tooth 
in  his  head  on  Brooke." 

Sir  Harry  laughed.  "Old  Carew's  not  seen  our 
Merodach.  Brooke's  antiquated." 

"Broughton  coached  him,  didn't  he?" 

"Merodach's  pupil  of  Broughton's,  too.  Oh,  'tis 
a  sweet  match!  Merodach,  here's  luck,  an'  damn 
you  if  you're  beat!  I've  laid  my  last  crown  on 
you!" 

"  'Tis  a  cracked  one,  Merodach,  cracked  in  the 
ring!  Take  no  heed  of  him,  man!"  shouted  Cava- 
nagh. "We'll  all  be  ruined  entirely  if  ye  fail. 
What,  ye' re  not  leavin'  us?" 


BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN    45 

"  Tis  ten,  gentlemen,  and  I'm  for  bed,"  returned 
the  gypsy,  rising. 

"Who's  it  will  be  takin'  ye  home?  An  escort 
ho!" 

"  'Tis  his  trainer's  business." 

"Gentlemen,  I  train  myself,  and  I  need  no  pro- 
tection, thanking  you  kindly."  A  mischievous  light 
flickered  in  Merodach's  eyes  for  an  instant  as  he  sur- 
veyed his  patrons,  who  appeared  more  in  need  of 
escort  than  capable  of  giving  it.  "Till  to-morrow, 
sirs,  and  thank'ee  for  your  entertainment !" 

Under  cover  of  a  shouted  chorus  he  made  his 
escape  and  set  out  for  his  lodging,  striding  bare- 
headed through  the  narrow  streets;  breathing  deep 
to  clear  his  lungs  of  smoke;  lifting  dark  eyes  to 
the  moon  that  shone  above  the  clustered  house-tops ; 
whistling  below  his  breath. 

The  coming  fight  caused  him  no  uneasiness.  He 
had  met  and  vanquished  more  formidable  opponents 
than  Brooke:  he  had  no  misgivings,  although  he 
knew  that  the  fortunes  of  a  dozen  patrons  depended 
upon  his  victory. 

Brooke's  adherents  had  no  misgivings  either ;  their 
plans  were  well  laid. 

As  the  gypsy  swung  into  an  alley  among  the 
huddle  of  markets  north  of  Orange  Grove,  a  lame 
beggar  whined  for  alms.  Merodach  stopped,  thrust- 
ing both  hands  into  his  breeches'  pockets  to  search 
for  a  coin,  and  something  abominably  heavy  hit 
him  on  the  back  of  the  head.  He  fell  like  a  log. 
The  lame  beggar  sprang  upon  him,  trailing  a  length 


46  MY  LADY  APRIL 

of  rope,  and  presently,  bound  wrist  and  ankle,  and 
still  unconscious,  Merodach  was  borne  away  by 
four  men. 

Avoiding  the  watch  they  chose  by-ways  and  at 
length  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  The  Lon- 
don road  lay  empty  in  the  moonlight,  patched  with 
black  shadows,  still  wet  from  a  recent  shower.  A 
black  and  white  cat  picked  her  way  between  the 
starry  puddles  and,  gaining  an  area  railing,  peered 
down.  Four  men  were  carrying  something  cum- 
brous into  the  empty  house. 

Half  an  hour  passed  before  they  reappeared  with 
a  bundle  of  clothing;  a  brown  suit,  a  blue  necker- 
chief, stout  shoes,  all  tied  together  with  a  pair  of 
gray  worsted  stockings. 

"Not  a  hitch,"  said  one.  "Demme,  'twas  easy  as 
kiss  my  hand.  He's  safe  out  o'  the  way." 

"What're  ye  going  to  do  wi'  the  clobber?" 

"Pitch  it  in  the  river,  o'  course." 

"What  d'ye  stand  to  win,  Giles  ?" 

"Ecod,  a  tidy  lump!"  The  rogue  chuckled  and 
jingled  loose  coppers  in  his  pocket.  "There'll  be  no 
fight.  'Twas  play  or  pay,  and  Sir  Humphrey  Mid- 
diet  on'll  make  it  worth  our  while,  I'll  take  my  oath. 
Sst!  what's  this?'" 

From  the  dark  house  of  Sir  George  Forrest  a 
cloaked  figure  emerged,  hood  clutched  about  its  face, 
one  shoulder  dragged  down  by  the  weight  of  a 
valise.  The  woman  was  off  up  the  London  road 
with  never  a  glance  behind,  and  as  the  clack  of  high 


BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN     47 

heels  faded,  Giles  caught  at  a  comrade's  coat  skirts. 
"Let  her  go,"  he  urged.  "  'Tis  an  assignation, 
for  sure.  There'll  be  a  man  somewhere  waiting  an' 
we  don't  want  to  be  seen  about  here.  Off  to  bed  wi* 
ye,  cullies." 

Lady  Forrest  stopped  the  play  at  an  extraordinary 
hour  that  night.  By  half  after  ten  the  house  was 
empty.  Her  guests  wondered,  grumbled,  protested, 
swore.  She  laughingly  declared  that  they  might 
stay  until  three  o'clock  next  evening,  but  to-night  she 
would  be  private. 

There  was  no  gainsaying  that. 

The  rooms  once  empty,  she  extinguished  the  lights 
and  earned  her  winnings  upstairs  to  her  chamber. 
Janet  was  asleep  before  the  fire  and  roused,  smother- 
ing a  yawn  as  her  mistress  came  in. 

"You  may  unpin  me,  child,"  said  Lavinia  wearily. 
"And  then  get  to  bed." 

"An't  you  well,  my  lady?"  Janet  glanced  at  the 
clock.  "  Tis  but  half  after  ten." 

"I'm  tired  to  death,"  sighed  Lavinia.  "Give  me 
my  wrapper  and  the  salts.  No,  I  need  nothing  else. 
You  may  go." 

Janet  went  as  far  as  the  turn  of  the  stair,  blew 
out  her  candle  and  waited.  As  was  to  be  expected, 
Lady  Forrest  threw  open  her  door  five  minutes  later, 
glanced  round,  and  retired  again.  The  abigail  heard 
the  key  turn.  Leaving  her  shoes  upon  the  upper 
landing  she  endeavored  to  see  what  was  afoot,  but 


48  MY  LADY  APRIL 

the  key  blocked  her  view  and  she  returned  to  sit 
huddled  upon  the  attic  chair,  drowsing,  yawning, 
wondering  what  her  mistress  could  be  at. 

The  slam  of  the  front  door  awoke  her  and  craning 
over  the  rail  she  listened  for  Dorothy's  step  in  the 
hall.  It  did  not  come.  She  was  mistaken.  Some 
one  had  gone  out. 

Muttering  to  herself,  Janet  lit  her  candle,  pulled 
on  her  slippers,  and  ran  downstairs  to  find  Lady 
Forrest's  door  wide  and  the  room  in  darkness. 

"Lawks !"  ejaculated  Janet,  and  broke  into  a  flood 
of  execration.  "Gone?  Oh,  the  viper!  And  what 
o'  my  wages,  three  months  due  and  nothing  left — " 
She  plunged  into  the  clothes  closet;  rummaged 
through  tumbled  drawers;  flung  aside  the  bed  cur- 
tains to  examine  the  pillows;  sobbing  in  impotent 
rage  as  she  shook  out  soiled  kerchiefs  and  overset 
half -empty  band-boxes.  "Rot  her!  Never  a  groat, 
an'  Sir  George,  an'  Mr.  Charles  off  to  France,  though 
they  did  think  to  hoodwink  me  wi'  their  talk  o' 
London,  I'm  no  fool — and  a  bumbailey  in  the  pantry 
— an'  now  my  lady  off,  eloping  for  what  I  can  tell. 
Oh,  the  beldam!  Not  so  much  as  a  jeweled  but- 
ton !"  She  rushed  to  the  dressing-table.  The  silver 
tops  were  missing  from  the  essence  pots ;  the  buckles 
had  been  torn  from  two  pairs  of  shoes ;  there  was  not 
a  trinket  of  any  kind. 

Her  eyes  fell  on  a  letter.  She  caught  it  up,  and 
a  jingle  of  money  came  from  the  folded  paper.  The 
woman  hesitated,  fingering  the  seal,  remembering 
that  the  theft  of  more  than  forty  shillings  committed 


BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN    49 

in  a  house  was  a  crime  punishable  by  death.  Yet 
she  had  not  received  her  wages.  She  set  her  teeth 
and  ripped  the  letter  open,  counting  the  gold  eagerly. 
Ten  guineas.  It  would  serve.  She  rolled  it  in  a 
wide  silk  ribbon  and  pinned  it  carefully  in  an  under- 
pocket :  then  she  realized  that  in  her  haste  she  had 
so  torn  the  letter  that  it  could  not  be  refolded. 
Sweeping  aside  a  litter  of  brushes  and  rouge  pots 
she  spread  it  flat  upon  the  table,  poring  over  it,  her 
lips  pinched  between  fingers  and  thumb. 

"My  DEAR  DOLL,"  wrote  Lady  Forrest,  "You  are 
aware  that  your  father  has  been  called  away  on 
business.  I  have  of  a  sudden  found  it  necessary 
to  go  too.  Do  not  be  Alarmed.  Janet  will  look 
after  you.  I  enclose  ten  guineas  as  you  may  need 
some  Money.  No  doubt  more  will  be  forthcoming 
shortly  but  I  beg  you  to  be  Careful.  It  will  be  well 
if  you  leave  Bath  within  the  week  and  post  to  your 
cousin's  at  Winterbourne  Chase.  Wait  there  until 
I  send  for  you.  All  this  is  Monstrous  upsetting  but 
it  could  not  be  Avoided.  I  have  Perfect  Confidence 
in  your  Ability  to  take  care  of  yourself,  but  have 
nought  to  do  with  Mrs.  Bradley.  The  woman  has 
a  most  unpleasant  Reputation. 

"Your  affect,  mother, 

"LAVINIA  FORREST." 

Manifestly,  it  was  impossible  to  give  that  letter 
to  Miss  Dorothy  lacking  the  ten  gold  pieces.  Janet 
glanced  at  the  clock,  tore  the  paper  across  and  across 


50  MY  LADY  APRIL 

and  held  the  scraps  in  the  flame  of  a  candle.  As 
the  ashes  fell  sidelong  to  the  carpet  she  set  her 
foot  upon  them,  rubbing  them  to  powder.  Then  un- 
reasoning, panic  terror  laid  hold  upon  her. 

The  house  was  empty  save  for  the  bailiff  asleep 
upon  two  chairs  in  the  butler's  pantry,  but  at  any 
moment  Miss  Dorothy  might  return.  Greed  and 
dread  of  the  law  fought  in  Janet's  mind,  but  it  was 
not  her  intention  to  leave  empty  handed.  She 
snatched  a  silk  petticoat  and  a  brocaded  gown,  gloves, 
fans,  and  a  lace  scarf,  rolled  them  into  two  bundles 
and  finding  a  long  leathern  strap  among  the  trunks 
in  a  garret,  slung  her  booty  over  her  shoulders. 
Her  wide  cloak  covered  the  bundles  well  enough  to 
pass  unnoticed  in  the  night. 

Moving  stealthily  she  crept  downstairs  and  out 
by  the  garden  door  and  the  shadows  swallowed  her 
up. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Dorothy  Forrest,  still 
flushed  with  the  demure  gayety  of  country  dances, 
was  put  into  her  chair  by  three  adorers  and  carried 
home  to  a  deserted  house. 

That  Ralph  Carew  did  not  reappear  to  dance  with 
her  troubled  her  not  at  all.  She  understood  that 
his  uncle's  servant  had  summoned  him  away.  If 
she  knew  anything  of  men  he  would  not  rest  con- 
tent until  he  had  contrived  a  meeting.  It  was  de- 
lightfully romantic,  to  be  sure ;  but  her  mother  would 
storm  at  her  when  she  saw  those  grease  spots  upon 
her  gown,  a  new  one,  hardly  worn.  She  hoped  that 


BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN     51 

Lady  Forrest  would  be  too  tired  to  notice  them; 
she  might  slip  unobserved  to  bed,  and  try  what  a 
hot  iron  and  flannel  would  do  in  the  morning. 

Emerging  from  her  chair  she  dismissed  the  men 
with  the  assurance  born  of  long  habit,  and  set  her 
key  in  the  door.  It  was  a  damning  fact  in  the  eyes 
of  Bath,  that  latch-key,  that  trapesing  to  and  fro 
at  all  hours,  without  so  much  as  a  maid  in  attend- 
dance.  Dorothy  thought  nothing  of  it. 

The  door  swung  back  upon  a  dark  hall:  fortune 
favored  her:  doubtless  her  mother's  guests  had 
left  earlier  than  was  ordinary,  and  she  had  retired. 
It  was  monstrous  lucky. 

The  girl  groped  her  way  to  the  dining  room,  raked 
the  dying  fire,  and  lit  a  taper  at  the  embers.  Candle- 
light revealed  scattered  plates  and  glasses,  despoiled 
dishes  upon  the  dresser,  chairs  set  all  ways  as  though 
invisible  occupants  still  gossiped.  Dorothy  hesi- 
tated. It  was  odd  that  Janet  had  not  cleared  away. 

She  poured  wine,  chose  a  cake  and  stood  eating, 
still  a  little  excited  over  her  adventure;  pondering 
young  Carew's  impetuous  wooing;  smiling;  flush- 
ing; acknowledging  that  he  was  a  presentable  fel- 
low; exultant  in  that  Lady  Kirkpatrick's  malicious 
tongue  had  had  no  effect  upon  his  estimation  of  her. 

Nibbling  at  a  candied  pear  Dorothy  took  her 
candle  and  went  above-stairs,  glancing  into  the  de- 
serted gaming  rooms.  The  air  smelt  stale  and  she 
propped  the  doors  open. 

On  the  next  landing  she  paused  outside  her 
mother's  room,  arrested  by  a  white  silk  stocking 


52  MY  LADY  APRIL 

that  trailed  across  the  threshold.  The  door  stood 
slightly  ajar  and  she  pushed  it  wide  and  entered, 
aghast  at  the  scene  of  confusion  that  met  her  eyes. 
Drawers  had  been  pulled  out  of  their  chests  and 
turned  upside  down  upon  the  floor.  Heaps  of  rum- 
pled underclothing  lay  in  corners;  a  hat  was  in  the 
grate  and  a  bottle  of  essence  was  spilt  over  the 
dressing-table,  which  reeked  of  bergamot. 

"Mother !"  cried  the  girl,  and  snatched  at  the  cur- 
tains of  the  bed,  not  knowing  what  she  might  find. 
The  pillows  were  flung  against  the  foot;  the  bed 
had  not  been  used,  for  Lavinia's  night-rail  was 
folded  under  the  covers.  Amazed,  frightened, 
Dorothy  lit  more  candles  and  searched  the  room, 
half  expecting  to  discover  a  letter,  a  message  of 
some  sort. 

There  was  nothing. 

She  went  into  her  father's  chamber  and  found 
it  empty  but  more  or  less  in  order.  His  valise  and 
the  saddle-bags  were  gone  from  the  cupboard  in  the 
wall ;  the  closet  where  his  man  slept  was  empty  too, 
but  she  knew  that  Sir  George  had  taken  his  valet 
and  ridden  to  London  on  urgent  business  a  week 
ago. 

Sobbing  under  her  breath,  the  girl  ran  about  the 
desolate  house,  a  candle  flaring  in  one  hand,  her 
skirts  caught  up  in  the  other;  calling  in  frightened 
whispers;  almost  distraught  with  half-formed  mis- 
givings ;  forgetting  all  her  mother's  cruelty  and  spite 
in  her  anxiety  as  to  her  fate. 


BETWEEN  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN    53 

At  length,  dishevelled,  tear-stained,  she  gave  up 
the  search,  lingering  at  the  stair-head,  remembering 
that  she  had  not  been  through  the  kitchens.  The 
thought  of  the  dark  basement  stayed  her:  she  would 
wait  until  the  morning. 

Trembling,  she  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  house, 
peered  into  one  attic  half  filled  with  trunks  and 
lumber,  and  hastily  retreated  to  her  own  room,  a 
garret  with  sloping  roof  and  great  cupboards  built 
into  the  walls.  A  door  at  one  side  led  to  the  smaller 
room  where  Janet  slept,  and  Dorothy  went  in  once 
more  to  make  quite  certain  that  the  woman  was  not 
there.  She  opened  the  door  of  a  closet,  pushed  at 
the  hanging  clothes ;  knelt  down  to  peer  beneath  the 
bed.  Naturally  the  buxom  Janet  was  in  none  of 
these  places,  but  somehow  it  comforted  her  to  look. 

Presently,  tired  out  with  apprehension  and  dismay, 
Dorothy  undressed  and  crept  to  bed,  falling  into  an 
uneasy  slumber,  her  tear-wet  cheek  pressed  into  the 
pillows. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  Bartholomew 
Griggs  fell  off  his  two  chairs  and  awoke,  cursing. 
A  curious  taste  in  his  mouth  suggested  that  his  sup- 
per ale  had  been  drugged,  and  he  remembered  that 
the  woman  had  urged  him  to  help  himself  gener- 
ously. Women  were  the  devil. 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  rubbed  his  cramped  legs, 
stamping  about  the  pantry  to  restore  circulation; 
and  then,  resolved  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  in 


54  MY  LADY  APRIL 

a  more  comfortable  way,  he  went  upstairs  in  search 
of  cushions  and  a  settee,  and  something  to  wash 
that  vile  taste  from  his  tongue. 

The  dining-room  provided  wine  and  Griggs  got 
rid  of  the  taste  without  difficulty,  ate  a  second  sup- 
per and  emptied  three  bottles  of  canary.  Then  he 
looked  about  him  with  the  hazy  notion  that  a  bed 
would  be  convenient. 

Rolling  out  to  the  hall  his  hands  fell  on  the 
banister  and  he  climbed  slowly,  clinging  to  the  rail, 
aware  that  doors  gaped  upon  the  landings  but  un- 
willing to  let  go  his  hold  in  order  to  explore. 

"Mushn'  disturb  th'  quality,"  he  mumbled. 
"Atticsh  besh  f'r  likes  o'  me."  And  adventured 
higher,  stumbling  in  the  dawning  light  that  showed 
gray  through  the  tall  windows. 

As  her  door  swung  inward  beneath  his  weight 
Dorothy  awoke  and  sat  upright,  dazed,  cold  with 
sudden  fear.  The  man  lurched  forward,  and  even 
as  she  scrambled  to  the  floor  he  collapsed  upon  her 
bed  and  immediately  slept. 

Panic-stricken,  Dorothy  darted  into  Janet's 
room,  pushed  to  the  door  and  dragged  a  table 
against  it ;  and  creeping  into  the  wall-cupboard  sank 
down  upon  a  fallen  cloak  and  sat  shivering  in  her 
thin  night-dress. 

The  unreality  of  a  dream  hedged  her  round. 
The  whole  evening  seemed  to  have  been  one  long 
series  of  disasters,  and  even  in  the  sanctuary  of 
Janet's  clothes-closet  there  was  no  peace,  for  a 


55 

rat  was  scrabbling  intermittently  in  the  wainscot. 

Dorothy  abhorred  rats.  She  raised  her  hand  and 
smacked  the  wall  with  the  flat  of  her  palm,  and 
was  startled  almost  out  of  her  senses  to  hear  an 
answering  blow. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   PRIZE   FIGHTER 

PETRIFIED  with  sudden  fright  Dorothy  sat 
rigid,  palpitating,  crouched  against  the  wall, 
choking  back  the  scream  that  rose  in  her 
throat.     Hordes   of   rats   were   preferable   to   the 
drunken  creature  asleep  upon  her  bed. 

A  pulsating  silence  followed  that  one  terrible 
knock,  but  after  a  while  she  became  aware  that 
something  moved  in  the  wall  at  her  ear.  There 
came  a  muffled  groan,  a  subdued  scuffling,  then 
an  unmistakable  blow,  thudding  upon  bare  boards. 
To  Dorothy's  certain  knowledge  the  house  next 
door  had  been  empty  for  over  a  year.  She  held 
her  breath  to  listen. 

The  thought  of  ghosts  never  entered  her  mind. 
There  was  something  human  and  alive,  shut  into 
a  cupboard  similar  to  that  in  which  she  crouched. 
A  big  dog,  perhaps.  Dorothy  had  spent  the  greater 
part  of  her  childhood  in  the  country  and  was  per- 
fectly accustomed  to  big  dogs,  the  bigger  the  bet- 
ter. If  she  could  get  it  out  a  big  dog  would  be 
a  very  comforting  companion.  Heartened  at  the 
thought  she  tapped  again,  and  again  came  an  an- 
swering thump,  an  inarticulate  appeal  for  help, 
curiously  close  to  her  ear. 

56 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  57 

She  felt  along  the  papered  walls  of  the  closet 
and  her  fingers  slid  into  a  crack,  a  long  groove 
running  downward  to  the  floor.  Panting  with 
eagerness  and  amazement,  tremulous  with  excite- 
ment, she  wrenched  a  steel  buckle  from  one  of 
Janet's  shoes  and  tore  at  the  paper. 

There  was  a  door. 

A  heavy  body  turned  over  in  the  farther  cup- 
board and  uncouth  sounds  suggested  that  some  one 
was  trying  to  speak  through  a  gag. 

"Oh,  what  is  it ?"  cried  Dorothy.  "Who's  there? 
Can  you  hear  me?  Push  at  the  wall!" 

A  man's  knees  and  feet  forced  back  the  little 
door  and  Dorothy  peered  through,  groping  in  pitch 
darkness.  As  the  prisoner  struggled  to  a  sitting 
posture  and  thrust  forward  his  head  her  fingers 
encountered  thick,  crisp  hair,  and  the  knotted  ends 
of  a  kerchief.  The  gag  was  out  almost  before  she 
knew  how  she  had  done  it. 

"Thanks,"  said  a  deep  voice.  "Have  you  a 
knife?" 

"I — I  can  fetch  a  scissors,"  gasped  the  girl. 
"What—?" 

"I'll  tell  you  more  when  I've  had  a  drink." 

Scrambling  backward  into  Janet's  room,  Dorothy 
presently  found  a  jug  of  water  and  a  pair  of  stout 
scissors.  She  crept  again  into  the  cupboard  and 
held  the  jug  while  the  man  drank  thirstily. 

"Phew!"  said  he.  "A  foul  cotton  gagf  They 
might  ha'  given  me  clean  linen,  but  'tis  too  much 
to  hope  from  sandbaggers." 


58  MY  LADY  APRIL 

His  voice  puzzled  Dorothy:  it  seemed  familiar, 
and  yet  unlike  any  other  that  she  had  ever  heard. 
She  faltered  something  about  scissors. 

"If  you'll  get  a  light  I'll  roll  over  and  you  can 
reach  my  wrists,"  he  said. 

Retiring  again  to  Janet's  room  Dorothy  found 
flint  and  steel,  but  as  the  candle  flared  up  beneath 
the  glowing  sulphur  match,  she  caught  sight  of  her- 
self in  the  cracked  mirror,  and  realized  that  she 
was  clad  only  in  her  night-dress.  She  snatched  the 
first  garment  that  csrtie  to  hand,  knotted  a  kerchief 
about  her  shoulders,  and  carrying  the  light  went 
back  to  the  cupboard. 

The  man  looked  up  to  find  a  slender  girl  in  the 
gray  cotton  dress  of  a  waiting-maid,  kneeling  at  the 
opening  to  his  prison;  her  neck  half  hidden  by  a 
white  muslin,  her  slim  fingers  glowing  rosily  against 
the  candle  flame.  The  girl  looked  down  upon  a 
swarthy,  half-naked  fellow  bound  hand  and  foot 
with  thin,  strong  cords.  He  wriggled  over  and  lay 
upon  his  face  while  she  cut  through  his  bonds,  and 
when  at  length  his  wrists  were  free  he  bade  her, 
rather  roughly,  to  leave  him. 

She  pulled  a  blanket  from  the  bed  and  tossed  it 
into  the  closet,  and  then  retiring  to  the  dressing- 
table,  busied  herself  with  her  tumbled  hair.  Pres- 
ently out  into  the  garret  strode  a  savage  figure, 
black  hair  tossing  over  black  eyes,  sinewy  arms  and 
legs  bare :  the  blanket  with  a  hole  cut  in  the  middle 
covered  him  from  shoulder  to  knee,  and  was  girded 
over  his  narrow  hips  with  a  length  of  rope. 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  59 

Yet  in  spite  of  his  barbaric  aspect  Dorothy  found 
nothing  to  fear. 

"I've  spoilt  your  blanket,"  said  he,  smiling  down 
at  her.  "Will  your  mistress  whip  you?" 

Not  knowing  quite  how  to  correct  his  very  nat- 
ural mistake,  Dorothy  shook  her  head. 

"Is  the  household  asleep,  child?  Can  you  get 
me  food  and  drink?  I've  been  mewed  in  that  hole 
for  hours."  He  dropped  upon  the  bed  and  began 
to  rub  his  chafed  ankles. 

Dorothy  moved  to  lift  away  the  table  from  the 
door.  He  looked  up,  amazed. 

"What,  d'you  barricade  yourself  at  night?  Good 
gad!  Here — let  me — "  He  would  have  opened 
the  door  for  her  but  that  she  stayed  him,  a  finger 
at  her  lips. 

"There's  a  man  asleep  in  there — I'm  afraid — I 
don't  know — I  don't  wish  him  to  waken — "  A 
sob  caught  her  voice.  "Will  you — shall  we  tiptoe 
through  and  down  the  stair?  There's  food  and 
wine — I'll  tell  you — I'll  explain — O  lud,  sir,  come 
softly — I'm  nigh  dead  of  terror!" 

He  nodded  reassuringly,  his  eyes  questing  over 
her  poor  gown,  her  shining  hair,  her  piteously  trem- 
bling hands. 

A  stertorous  snore  reached  them  as  she  pulled 
open  the  door,  and  shielding  the  light  the  gypsy 
halted  for  an  instant  beside  the  bed,  gazing  curi- 
ously down  at  the  unlovely  occupant. 

"Phew!"  said  he  below  his  breath.  "Barty 
Griggs,  on  my  soul!" 


60  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"You  know  him?"  whispered  Dorothy. 

Merodach  nodded  again. 

They  crept  out,  barefoot,  and  closing  the  door 
cautiously,  Dorothy  led  the  way  to  the  dining  room, 
where  she  cleared  a  space  on  the  disordered  table 
and  chose  wine  and  food. 

"To  our  better  acquaintance!"  said  the  gypsy, 
smiling  above  his  glass.  "Come,  child,  you  must 
drink.  You're  trembling  with  cold  and  I  dare  swear 
you're  bursting  with  curiosity." 

She  swept  the  hair  out  of  her  eyes  with  a  dazed 
little  gesture  and  di-ank  obediently.  "To  our — bet- 
ter acquaintance,"  said  she. 

He  caught  the  glass  as  it  slid  out  of  her  nerveless 
ringers.  "Is  this  cold  or  terror?  What  has 
frighted  you  so?  Was  it  Barty?  Lud,  when  he's 
in  liquor  he's  harmless  as  a  fish!" 

"I  was  asleep  when  he  blundered  into  my  room. 
Who  is  he?  Why  is—" 

"I  think  'tis  probable  he's  here  on  business," 
ventured  Merodach.  "Must  I  explain?  Child,  he's 
a  bailiff." 

For  a  moment  Dorothy  gave  no  sign  that  she 
understood.  Then  she  sank  into  a  chair  and  sat 
clutching  the  table-cloth,  staring  perplexedly  at  the 
man  before  her.  "A — a  bailiff?"  echoed  she. 
«W— what—  ?" 

"In  possession.     Is  your  master  in  debt?" 

"My — my  father  was  called  away  to  London  a 
week  since,  and  to-night  I  came  from  the  Rooms 
to  find  my  mother  gone  and  the  house  empty — " 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  61 

"But  for  Barty  Griggs?" 

"He  must  have  been  below-stairs,"  said  she,  con- 
sidering. "I  daren't  search  the  basement.  There 
are  black  beetles." 

He  nodded  solemnly,  and  cutting  up  part  of  a 
cold  chicken  set  it  before  her.  "Eat,  or  you'll  be 
ill,"  he  said,  and  began  his  own  meal  with  a  good 
appetite. 

After  a  while:  "You  drink  nothing,"  said 
Dorothy.  "An't  the  wine  to  your  taste?" 

"I'm  in  training,"  he  explained.  "One  glass,  to 
drive  out  the  chill  of  that  garret,  but  no  more. 
To-morrow  I'm  to  meet  Brooke.  That's  why  I  was 
sandbagged  and  stripped  and  shut  up  out  o'  the 
way.  They're  afraid  of  me.  They  thought  even 
if  I  got  free  I'd  not  go  to  the  fight  half-naked." 
He  laughed  and  showed  her  the  muscles  of  his 
arms  with  a  boyish  exultation  that  was  engaging. 
"Feel!  I'm  fit  as  a  fiddle,  and  Brooke — well 
Brooke's  relying  on  his  reputation.  What,  don't 
you  understand,  child?  I'm  a  prize  fighter.  Oh, 
'tis  a  great  life,  believe  me!" 

"You  fight — for  money?"  she  hazarded. 

"Exactly." 

Sitting  there  clad  in  his  girt  blanket  he  made  a 
picturesque,  strenuous  figure,  and  unconsciously 
Dorothy  compared  him  with  the  men  she  knew,  to 
their  detriment.  He  seemed  serenely  unaware  of 
her  peering  eyes,  perfectly  indifferent  as  to  the 
effect  of  his  words  upon  her,  unconscious  of  any- 
thing extraordinary  in  the  situation. 


62  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"The  fire's  not  out,"  said  he,  stretching.  "I'll 
mend  it  and  we  can  sit  and  talk  in  comfort  until 
morning."  Without  asking  permission  he  busied 
himself  about  the  hearth,  raking  out  the  dead  ash, 
blowing  red  embers  to  a  blaze,  piling  on  dry  wood 
that  was  stacked  ready  to  hand  until  when  the  fire 
was  roaring  up  the  chimney  he  threw  a  couple  of 
cushions  upon  the  floor  and  beckoned  the  girl 
nearer. 

"Come  toast  your  toes,"  he  invited,  "and  tell 
me  your  side  o'  the  story.  You  know  mine." 

"I  don't  know  your  name,"  began  Dorothy. 

He  laughed.  "Who  does?  Men  call  me  Mero- 
dach,  and  it  serves  as  well  as  another.  Merodach, 
the  god  of  battle,  the  god  of  the  morning  light 
and  the  spring  sun.  Oh,  'tis  a  name  takes  some 
living  up  to,  I  assure  you!"  He  Scit  down  cross- 
legged  and  patted  the  other  cushion  with  the  air 
of  a  host  at  a  wayside  encampment,  offering  hos- 
pitality to  a  fellow  traveler.  In  the  dancing  fire- 
light he  looked  a  very  faun ;  an  artless,  friendly 
denizen  of  open  spaces,  content  for  the  moment  to 
rest  beside  a  hearth,  but  ready  to  follow  the  wind's 
will  the  instant  he  heard  the  call. 

The  girl  caught  something  of  his  friendliness  and 
dropped  beside  him,  stretching  her  fingers  to  the 
blaze;  but  in  spite  of  his  invitation  she  remained 
silent. 

At  length :  "This,  if  I  mistake  not,  is  Sir  George 
Forrest's  house?"  he  began. 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  63 

"Yes."  For  an  instant  she  turned  her  head  and 
looked  him  in  the  eyes.  "If  you  know  so  much, 
doubtless  you  know  more.  'Tis  common  knowl- 
edge that  my  parents  keep  a  faro  table." 

"Your  parents!" 

"I  am  Dorothy  Forrest.  The  town  will  tell  you 
that  I  am  a  decoy,"  she  checked  his  half-uttered 
exclamation  with  a  swift  hand.  "  'Tis  true.  I  go 
— as  old  Lady  Kirkpatrick  says  at  every  oppor- 
tunity— I  go  a-hunting  game  for  my  mother's  table. 
'Tis  her  one  witty  speech.  She  delivered  it  with 
vast  gravity  to-night,  but  I'm  persuaded  that  it 
made  no  impression — "  she  broke  off,  glanced  at 
him,  decided  that  'twas  no  secret,  and  added — 
"upon  Mr.  Ralph  Carew." 

Merodach  lifted  his  head  and  regarded  her 
thoughtfully. 

"You  met— Mr.  Ralph  Carew?" 

"At  the  ball,"  she  admitted. 

"A  new-comer?" 

"But  just  returned  from  two  years'  travel." 

"And  he's  to  come  here  to-morrow — to-night 
rather,  to  adventure  his  fortune?" 

"No,"   said  Dorothy  softly.     "I   forbade  him." 

Merodach  laughed.  "O  child !  Han't  ye  learned 
'tis  the  surest  way  to  bring  a  man?  Gad,  you 
knew  it!" 

"I  was  in  earnest,"  cried  the  girl.  "I  forbade 
him  the  house.  He'll  not  come.  Oh,  shame! 
You  believe  what  they  say  of  me ;  he  did  not !" 


64  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"I  think  of  you  as  one  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning,"  he  began,  and  bit  his  lip  with  a  covert 
glance  at  her. 

The  words  conveyed  nothing  to  Dorothy,  who 
read  nothing  worth  remembering  and  remembered 
nothing  that  she  read. 

The  gypsy  clasped  his  hands  about  his  knees  and 
gazed  at  the  fire,  relieved,  albeit  a  little  disappointed 
in  her.  "So  your  parents  have  left  you  in  charge?" 
he  suggested. 

"Faith,  they've  left  me,"  answered  the  girl  with 
a  little  catch  in  her  breath.  "I  searched  every- 
where for  a  message,  a  letter — but  there  was  noth- 
ing." 

"Servants?" 

"My  father's  man  rode  with  him  a  week  ago. 
My  mother's  woman — sure,  she'd  take  her — " 

"She's  gone?" 

Dorothy  nodded,  groping  amid  a  chaos  of  half- 
formed  thoughts. 

"But  a  house  this  size  needs  other  servants?" 

"They  come  in  by  the  hour,"  she  explained. 
"There's  no  room  for  them  to  sleep.  The  pastry- 
cook sends  men  to  help  with  the  supper.  D'you 
think  they  could  have  ransacked  the  place?  'Tis 
so  upset — Janet  would  never  have  left  it  so.  O  lud, 
I  don't  know  what  to  think!" 

"Will  you  let  me  search  the  house?"  said  Mero- 
dach. 

"If  you  would.  I  was  afraid  to  venture  in  the 
kitchens." 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  65 

He  stood  up,  knotted  the  rope  more  tightly  about 
his  waist,  stretched  like  a  lithe  animal,  and  pro- 
fessed himself  ready. 

"D'you  want  a  weapon?"  faltered  Dorothy.  "A 
poker—" 

He  laughed  and  held  out  clenched  fists.  "I  go 
armed.  Is  it  dark  below-stairs  ?  Will  you  carry 
a  light?" 

The  pale  beauty  of  a  moonstone  surrounded  them 
as  they  came  out  into  the  hall:  in  the  narrow  win- 
dows the  east  was  already  faintly  flushed :  across 
the  dew-gray  meadows  the  placid  Avon  shone  like 
silver,  and  a  bird  began  chirking  in  the  budding 
cherry  orchards  below  the  garden. 

Together  they  searched  the  hall,  the  morning 
room :  descended  to  the  basement  to  peer  into  coal- 
cellar  and  pantry:  explored  the  deserted,  echoing 
kitchens,  but  found  no  clue  to  the  mystery. 

Merodach  refused  to  go  out  into  the  area.  "I 
must  lie  close  till  evening,"  said  he.  "The  match 
is  at  six.  If  you  can  find  me  clothing  I'll  burst 
upon  'em  at  the  eleventh  hour,  Adrastia  turned 
male!"  He  laughed,  meeting  her  blank  stare. 
"  'Twas  play  or  pay,  and  a  dozen  fortunes 
lie  in  my  hands.  Brooke's  adherents  look  to 
win  without  a  fight.  I'll  be  there  to  disappoint 
'em!" 

In  Sir  George's  room  Dorothy  opened  the  closet, 
hesitated,  a  finger  at  her  lip,  and  then  finding  his 
eyes  upon  her  smiled  and  stood  back. 

"Sure,    you'd    best    choose    for    yourself.     My 


66  MY  LADY  APRIL 

father's  clothes  will  be  a  thought  small  for  you, 
but  there's  no  other — " 

"His  man?"  suggested  Merodach,  glancing  dis- 
paragingly at  the  array  of  silks  and  satins  which 
Sir  George  had  perforce  left  behind  him  in  his 
flight. 

"O  lud!  Charles  is  a  grasshopper  beside  you!" 
laughed  Dorothy.  "See,  here's  a  green  riding  coat 
would  do,  and  there's  linen  in  this  chest."  She 
left  him  and  went  into  her  mother's  room  where 
she  folded  petticoats  away,  hung  gowns  in  the  cup- 
board and  restored  the  place  to  some  degree  of 
order.  Finally,  having  smoothed  the  bed  and 
opened  the  windows,  she  turned  to  go  and  came 
face  to  face  with  Bartholomew  Griggs,  who  leered 
at  her  and  straightway  lifted  up  his  voice  in  song. 

"  'As  I  was  a-walkin   one  mornin'  in  May, 
To  view  the  green  fields  and  the  meadows  so  gay, 
I  heard  a  fair  damsel,  so  sweet  did  she  sing, 
"Oh  I  will  be  married  on  a  Tuesday  mor-ning!" 
Ta  rum  ti  de  dum  ti  de — ' ' 

He  took  a  ponderous  dancing  step  and  winked  with 
great  cordiality. 

u  'I  step-ped  up  to  her  an'  thus  did  I  say — ' 

Come,  says  I,  han't  ye  got  a  kiss  for  old  Barty?" 
A  dirty  hand  grabbed  at  her. 

"Keep  your  distance,  fellow,"  said  Dorothy,  and 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  67 

made  to  pass  him:  but  the  glance  that  would  have 
annihilated  Mr.  Ralph  Carew  had  no  effect  what- 
soever upon  the  bailiff.  He  gathered  her  to  him 
and  pursed  thick  lips. 

"Merodach!"  screamed  Dorothy. 

In  after  life  Bartholomew  Griggs  was  wont  to 
boast  that  he  had  received  Merodach's  left  under 
the  ear,  and  lived  to  tell  the  tale.  "Gosh!"  he'd 
say,  gazing  round  upon  the  circle  of  admirers. 
"Caught  me  here,  see?  Lifted  me  clean  off  me  feet. 
Sent  me  spinning  into  a  corner,  an*  there  I  lay 
thinkin'  as  how  the  roof  had  fallen  in.  Zoons, 
boys !  Merodach's  left,  an'  he  but  six  an'  twenty !" 

Merodach  stood  above  him,  buttoning  a  flowered 
waistcoat.  "What,  man!"  said  he,  grinning. 
"Never  look  so  scared.  I  might  ha'  killed  ye." 

"Oons!"  gasped  Bartholomew,  rubbing  his  jowl. 
"Merodach,  as  I'm  a  sinner!"  He  remained  gap- 
ing at  the  gypsy  until  pride  overcame  the  natural 
hostility  a  man  feels  toward  one  who  has  knocked 
him  flying.  Merodach  thrust  forth  a  hand  and 
pulled  him  to  his  feet,  and  the  bailiff  pumped  his 
arm  up  and  down,  stuttering  with  elation. 

"Sir,  I'm  proud  to  shake  ye  by  the  hand.  Gad, 
I  hope  I  carry  a  bruise !  'Twill  be  summat  to  boast 
on  to  my  grandchildren.  Sir,  your  very  obleeged 
'umble  servant.  Eh,  I  saw  ye  fight  in  Broughton's 
behind  the  Oxford  Road,  an'  a  pretty  sight  ye 
made!"  He  leered  across  at  Dorothy.  "Poachin', 
was  I?  Well,  sir,  'twas  unbeknownst,  an'  I  asks 
pardon — " 


68  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Merodach  cut  him  short.  "  Tis  Miss  Forrest, 
who's  saved  my  life  and  my  reputation.  I'll  tell 
you  more  as  we  get  breakfast,  the  house  is  empty 
but  for  ourselves.  Up,  man,  and  forage!"  With 
a  reassuring  nod  to  Dorothy  he  pushed  the  bailiff 
before  him.  The  girl  heard  them  descend  to  the 
kitchens,  and  leaning  over  the  banister  caught 
sounds  of  chopping  wood  and  the  rattle  of  thick 
crockery. 

Heartsick,  desolate,  she  went  back  to  her  room 
and  dressed  in  a  peacock-blue  gown  which  she  par- 
ticularly detested:  rolled  up  her  hair  with  none  of 
the  fastidious  pains  she  generally  took,  and  glanc- 
ing at  herself  in  the  mirror,  was  curiously  com- 
forted to  find  that  she  looked  a  perfect  fright.  She 
had  forbidden  Ralph  Carew  to  come.  Why  should 
she  dress  for  a  gypsy  prize-fighter  and  a  horrible 
bailiff?  Would  they  expect  her  to  eat  with  them? 

She  resolved  not  to  breakfast,  and  met  Merodach 
carrying  a  loaded  tray  at  the  head  of  the  first  stair. 

"Where'll  you  have  it?"   said  he  cheerily. 

"Thank  you.     I  need  nothing." 

He  glanced  from  her  piled  golden  hair  to  the 
severe  blue  gown.  "Faith,  you  look  a  madonna, 
but  I'll  swear  you're  flesh  and  blood.  Come  and 
eat,  or  I  lose  my  labor." 

Hot  coffee,  bread,  butter,  a  boiled  egg,  honey — 
he  set  them  all  out  upon  the  table  and  offered  his 
wrist  to  lead  her  to  a  chair.  Her  fingers  rested  for 
an  instant  upon  warm,  smooth  skin ;  she  found  her- 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  69 

self  seated  with  a  steaming  cup  at  her  side,  before 
she  realized  exactly  what  had  happened. 

Merodach  pushed  the  salt  cellar  within  reach  and 
cut  the  top  off  her  egg.  She  looked  up,  amazed 
at  his  attention. 

"Griggs'll  not  trouble  you,"  he  told  her  coolly. 
"I've  to  offer  his  apologies.  'Tis  as  I  expected. 
He's  here  in  possession,  and — Lady  Forrest  has 
evidently  made  a  bolt  of  it.  Her  woman  drugged 
his  supper  ale." 

"It's  strange  she  left  no  message,"  faltered 
Dorothy,  instinctively  motioning  him  to  the  chair 
beside  her.  With  Sir  George's  clothes  he  seemed 
to  have  put  on  something  of  the  manners  of  a  gentle- 
man. 

"There's  a  smear  of  ash  trodden  into  the  carpet 
below  my  lady's  table.  I  believe  she  did  write  and 
left  you  money,  and  her  woman  took  it  and  burned 
the  letter." 

"  Tis  possible.     But  how— ?" 

"Two  bits  escaped  the  candle,"  he  added,  and 
laid  them  before  her;  diagonal  strips  of  singed 
paper,  each  showing  part  of  two  lines  in  Lavinia's 
narrow  writing.  ".  .  .  the  week  .  .  .  wait  there 
.  .  ."  and  "confidence  in  ...  Mrs.  Bradley  .  .  ." 
was  decipherable. 

"Mrs.  Bradley?"  murmured  Dorothy.  "How 
odd!" 

"A — friend  of  yours?"  hazarded  Merodach, 
watching  her. 


70  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Lud,  no!  I've  seen  her  at  the  Rooms.  I  dis- 
like her  extremely." 

"Has  no  one  told  you  her — profession?" 

"Oh,  yes.  She  used  to  keep  a  finishing  school 
for  the  daughters  of  gentlemen.  Even  now  one  or 
two  old  pupils  live  with  her.  My  mother  evidently 
intends  me  to  wait  there  until  she  can  send."  Miss 
Forrest  tried  to  fit  the  two  scraps  of  paper  together, 
failed,  and  shrugged.  "I'd  liefer  go  into  a  nunnery, 
but  beggars  can't  be  choosers  and  I've  no  means  of 
hiring  a  post-chaise." 

"I  can  lend  you — "  he  burst  out,  and  stopped. 

"If  you  win  your  fight?"  said  she.  "Thank  you, 
but  I  want  no  blood-money." 

For  an  instant  their  eyes  met,  coldly  blue  challeng- 
ing keen,  bright  brown.  Miss  Forrest  was  the  first 
to  look  away. 

"You — dislike  prize  fighting?"  he  said;  and  some- 
how she  was  aware  that  he  would  not  utter  the 
words  that  had  leaped  to  his  tongue. 

"O  God !"  cried  the  girl,  and  choked  upon  a  sob. 
"I  loathe  all  fighting.  My  whole  life  is  full  of 
nothing  else.  My  parents  wrangle  over  everything 
and  nothing,  and  I  with  them.  We  fight  for  money 
night  after  night  with  cards  and  dice  and  wine  for 
weapons.  I,  I  fight  my  pride,  my  modesty,  my 
self-respect,  and  folk  think  me  brazen — O  lud,  one 
has  to  wear  armor!"  She  bit  a  trembling  lip  and 
smiled  at  him  wanly.  "Now  you  think  I  rant.  Oh 
yes,  you  do."  She  shrugged  and  rose;  he  was  on 
his  feet  instantly.  "Well,  one  must  live.  I  may 


THE  PRIZE  FIGHTER  71 

come  to  the  stage  yet.     I  think  I  could  play  Ophelia, 
but  Juliet — no." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  absently,  unaware  that  he 
was  staring. 

"I  know  too  much  of  men  ever  to  fall  in  love  with 
one  of  them,  even  in  make-believe." 

"You've  gained  that  knowledge  from  the  beaux 
you  meet  here  and  at  the  Rooms !"  he  cried.  "Gad, 
my  girl,  be  fair !  You  know  but  one  type  of  man, 
and  there  are  scores  of  others!" 

"True,"  said  Miss  Forrest  coldly.  "Until  last 
night  I  had  spoke  with  none  but  gentlemen." 

He  found  himself  staring  at  the  empty  doorway, 
shook -back  his  hair,  grinned  good-humoredly,  and 
loading  the  tray  carried  it  below. 

"Miss  hath  the  megrims,"  said  he  as  the  bailiff 
rose  and  jerked  crumbs  from  the  creases  in  his  cloth- 
ing. "Wash  up,  Barty,  while  I  get  something  to 
eat." 

"What!  I  thought  ye  broke  fast  above-stairs?" 
began  Griggs. 

"I  was  not  invited,"  returned  Merodach,  and 
pouring  the  cold  coffee  into  a  skillet,  set  it  among 
the  embers  to  heat. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LARRY   CAVANAGH 

AFTER  another  fruitless  search  Dorothy 
faced  the  unpleasant  fact  that  she  was 
penniless,  but  for  the  few  shillings  in  her 
jewel  box.  Lady  Forrest  had  taken  all  her  personal 
valuables;  Janet  had  appropriated  as  much  as  she 
could  carry.  Although  Dorothy  had  never  pos- 
sessed regular  pin  money  she  had  never  been  with- 
out a  guinea  or  two  to  spend,  and  Sir  George  was 
easy  to  wheedle  if  she  wanted  new  clothes.  Now 
she  realized  that  she  might  lack  the  absolute  neces- 
sities of  life,  and  the  prospect  dismayed  her. 

Subdued,  a  little  dazed,  the  girl  wandered  discon- 
solately about  the  house,  aware  that  the  bailiff's  eyes 
followed  her  from  the  shelter  of  the  door  jambs,  but 
reassured  by  Merodach's  influence  over  the  man. 

"I  has  to  see  as  ye  takes  nought  away,"  he  ex- 
plained, meeting  her  on  the  landing  as  she  came  from 
her  mother's  room. 

"There's  nothing  of  value  that  I  could  carry,"  re- 
turned Dorothy  wearily.  She  made  to  pass  him 
but  he  remained  planted  in  her  path,  blinking  up  at 
her  with  small,  red-rimmed  gray  eyes. 

"I'm  a  soft-hearted  customer,  I  am,"  said  Bar- 
tholomew, with  what  he  fondly  imagined  to  be  an 

72 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  73 

ingratiating  smile.  "I  can't  abide  to  see  beauty  in 
distress.  A  morsel  of  advice  now,  missie?  Would 
it  be  took  imperent,  or  would  it  be  accepted  of  in  the 
spirit  as  offered?" 

Heartsick  for  a  friend,  Dorothy  hesitated,  and  he 
caught  at  her  irresolution. 

"If  ye'd  consent  to  a  bit  of  palaver  wi'  me  an' 
young  Merodach,  conclusions  might  be  come  to, 
d'ye  see  ?  A  plan's  what  ye  lack.  Summat  to  work 
from.  Trouble's  never  such  a  bogey  if  looked  at 
fair  an'  square,  an'  speakin'  strickly  for  meself,  o' 
course,  it's  the  things  I  can't  see  I'm  scart  on." 

"Thank  you.  You  may  tell  Merodach  I'll  speak 
with  him,"  said  Miss  Forrest,  and  descended  to  the 
dining-room  divided  between  laughter  and  tears. 
The  life  she  led,  cut  off  from  the  companionship  of 
girls  of  her  own  age,  had  tended  to  make  her  mor- 
bidly self -centered:  she  saw  herself  from  outside, 
and  was  at  the  same  time  both  actor  and  spectator 
of  the  scenes  wherein  she  played  a  part.  It  was 
characteristic  that  now,  with  tears  thick  upon  her 
lashes,  she  went  over  to  the  mirror  above  the  hearth 
to  note  the  effect.  Her  eyes  were  unbecomingly  red. 
She  swallowed  hard,  and  found  a  seat  back  to  the 
light. 

The  two  men  discovered  her  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  a  pathetic  little  figure  enthroned  in  a  tall  arm- 
chair, her  fingers  drumming  nervously  upon  the 
polished  board  before  her. 

"Barty  tells  me  that  you  need  advice,"  began  the 
gypsy,  dropping  into  a  chair  at  her  right. 


74  MY  LADY  APRIL 

She  nodded  and  bit  her  trembling  lower  lip.  "I 
need  more  than  advice.  I've  seven  shillings,  and 
the  clothes  I  wear.  I — I  suppose  I've  no  real  right 
even  to  those." 

"No  more  ye  han't,  missie,"  said  Griggs  heartily. 
"Bein'  as  you  might  say  of  the  female  persuasion." 

"But  sure,  you've  friends  in  Bath?"  suggested 
Merodach. 

Dorothy  shook  her  head.  "Not  now.  Miss 
Abrams  is  gone  back  to  Scotland  with  her  aunt. 
She  was  the  only  woman  with  whom  I  was — inti- 
mate—" 

"Yet  you  must  have  met  scores  of  people  who — " 

"Scores.  But  there's  not  one  I  can  call  friend, 
unless — " 

"Barrin'  we,  missie.  Me  an'  Merodach!"  insis- 
ted Griggs. 

"Thank  you,"  returned  the  girl,  and  smiled,  April- 
fashion. 

The  trio  sat  and  stared  at  one  another  in  silence. 

"How  long  shall  I  be  allowed  to  stay  here?" 
asked  Dorothy  at  length. 

The  bailiff  puckered  his  mouth.  "Well,  there's 
to  be  a  sale,  d'ye  see  ?  In  less'n  a  week  there  won't 
be  a  stick  in  the  place,  's  far  as  I  know.  But, 
speakin,  strickly  between  friends,  ye  could  stay  here 
another  couple  o'  nights,  mebbe,  an'  then  ye'd  be  well 
advised  to  flit,  takin'  wi'  ye  a  small  an'  inconspickus 
valise  packed  wi'  strickly  personal — " 

"Two  nights  ?"  pondered  Dorothy.  "I  might  run 
the  tables  for  two  nights.  That  should  bring  me  in 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  75 

enough  to  hire  a  chaise  and  post  to  Winterbourne — 
to  my  cousin's  home  in  Sussex,"  she  added  in  an- 
swer to  Merodach's  inquiring  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  friends.  I'll  go  out  and  order  the 
supper — "  She  broke  off,  confused,  remembering 
that  she  could  pay  for  nothing. 

"Well,  your  guests  must  be  content  with  wine 
and  cakes,"  suggested  Merodach.  "You've  flour 
and  eggs  in  the  house?  There  was  enough  left 
of  last  night's  fare  to  make  a  dozen  pies  and  pud- 
dings." 

"What,  can  you  cook  as  well  as  fight?"  asked 
Dorothy,  staring. 

"Let  me  show  you!"  cried  Merodach. 

They  spent  three  hours  in  the  kitchen  among 
a  litter  of  patty-pans  and  the  collected  debris  of 
yesterday's  meals.  Merodach  in  shirt  sleeves,  an 
apron  protecting  Sir  George's  green  cloth  breeches : 
Dorothy  flushed  and  merry,  her  rosy  elbows  pow- 
dered with  flour :  Bartholomew  red- faced,  perspiring 
from  the  oven,  sucking  his  fingers  surreptitiously. 
The  place  rang  with  the  clatter  of  crockery  and  the 
beat  of  wooden  spoons  in  batter.  Merodach  whis- 
tled above  the  pastry-board:  Dorothy  chattered  as 
she  cut  up  candied  fruits,  excited,  almost  hysterical, 
rapt  out  of  her  habitual  apathy  by  this  sudden 
change  in  her  fortunes. 

Versed  as  she  was  in  the  ephemeral  intrigues 
of  Bath,  it  was  a  new  and  wonderful  experience 
to  look  into  a  man's  eyes  and  find  nothing  but  a 
frank  kindliness.  There  was  no  longer  any  need 


76  MY  LADY  APRIL 

for  self-defense,  for  the  quick  parry  and  thrust  of 
wit  against  will.  She  forgot  that  she  was  a  girl 
and  Merodach  a  man:  she  threw  restraint  and  con-.- 
vention  to  the  winds,  and  Merodach  apparently 
had  never  known  the  necessity  for  either. 

They  made  such  a  merry  din  that  a  knocking  at 
the  front  door  failed  to  disturb  them,  but  presently 
footsteps  upon  the  basement  stair  startled  them  into 
silence. 

Dorothy  glanced  from  Merodach  to  Bartholo- 
mew, but  before  she  could  speak  the  kitchen  door 
swung  open  to  admit  Mr.  Larry  Cavanagh,  chapeau 
bras  beneath  one  arm,  amber-headed  cane  a-dangle 
from  a  waistcoat  button,  a  quizzing  glass  poised 
in  long  white  fingers. 

"Good  ged!"  said  he,  and  stood  transfixed  with 
amazement. 

Dorothy  was  the  first  to  recover  composure,  but 
something  of  her  gay  confidence  fled  with  the  ad- 
vent of  the  beau. 

"To  what,  sir,  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  this  in- 
trusion?" She  sketched  a  curtsey,  recognizing  in 
Cavanagh  an  habitue  of  Lady  Forrest's  tables. 

"Holy  Saint  Bridget!"  murmured  Larry. 

"Explain  your  presence  here,  sir,  I  beg,"  insisted 
Miss  Forrest,  striving  to  appear  dignified  in  bobbed 
skirts  and  an  egg-splashed  pinner. 

"Sure,  I  called  to  change  the  news.  Didn't  ye 
hear  me,  an'  I  hammerin'  at  your  knocker  the  way 
it'd  rouse  the  Seven  Sleepers  themselves,  an'  they 
snorin'  ?" 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  77 

"But  how  did  you  get  in?" 

"Faith,  wasn't  the  door  on  the  latch?  I  heard 
voices,  so  down  I  came  thinkin'  I'd  find  servants, 
an'  ask — "  He  broke  off.  "What  in  the  name 
of  fortune  are  ye  at?" 

"Preparing  supper,"  returned  Dorothy,  with  de- 
fiant calm. 

"Good  ged!"  gasped  Cavanagh,  and  sank  upon 
the  settle.  "Supper?  Ye've  enough  there  to  feed 
a  company  of  dragoons." 

"We  expect  company,"  she  told  him.  "The 
rooms  will  be  open  to-night,  as  usual." 

"But  you — I  was  led  to  believe — 'tis  put  about 
that — that  Lady  Forrest  has  found  it — convenient 
to  go  abroad  ?"  stammered  the  Irishman.  "Rumor's 
tearin'  round  the  parish  with  her  tongue  flappin' 
like  the  mad  dog's  o'  Killoon.  As  a — a  friend,  I — 
I  took  upon  meself  to  contradict  every  blessed  story, 
an'  come  to  discover  was  I  perjurin'  me  soul — " 

"My  mother  was  called  away  on  urgent  busi- 
ness last  night,"  began  Dorothy,  and  tilted  back  her 
head  to  sniff.  "O  lud,  something's  burning!" 

Further  inquiries  concerning  Lavinia  died  upon 
the  visitor's  lips  as  Griggs  emerged  from  behind 
the  settle  and  darted  to  the  oven. 

"Good  ged!  Bartholomew  the  Grigg,  as  I'm  a 
sinner!  What,  is  it  turned  cook  ye  are,  Barty, 
ye  rogue?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Cavanagh,  sir,"  stammered  the  bailiff, 
dropping  a  tray  of  steaming  patties  on  the  table 


78  MY  LADY  APRIL 

and  licking  his  burnt  fingers.  "Yes,  sir.  You  gen'- 
lemen  do  like  your  little  joke.  But,  speakin'  strickly 
for  meself,  o'  course,  I'm  proud  to  do  the  scullery- 
maid,  sir.  What  I  says,  yer  honor,  a  man's  no 
man  as  won't  put  out  a  helpin'  hand  to  beauty  in 
distress,  sir,  an'  bein'  as  how  the  servants — " 

Mr.  Cavanagh  heaved  himself  upright  and  ad- 
vanced, white  fingers  extended.  "Mr.  Griggs,"  said 
he  solemnly.  "Ye  may  be  a  bumbailey  by  profes- 
sion, but  demme,  nature  intended  ye  for  a  gentle- 
man! Sure,  'tis  proud  I  am  to  shake  ye  by  the 
hand!"  He  shook  so  hard  that  Bartholomew 
winced.  "Miss  Forrest,  your  most  humble,  admir- 
ing servant  to  command.  Your  spirit,  me  dear,  is 
amazin'!  Good  ged,  in  your  place  most  women 
would  be  vaporish!"  He  gesticulated,  as  one  about 
to  deliver  an  epigram. 

"What  tho'  in  Kaos  all  our  hopes  do  lie? 

We  scorn  to — er — to  scorn — ahem,  Oh  demmit !" 

He  scratched  a  square  jaw,  smiling  whimsically 
at  Dorothy. 

"From  out  the  wreck  Miss  Forrest  makes  a  pie!" 

Merodach,  hitherto  unobserved,  lounged  forward 
from  the  shadows  of  the  big  basement  kitchen. 

"Good  ged!"  exploded  Cavanagh,  swinging  round. 
"I  should  know  that  voice.  Merodach !  What  un- 
der the  sun  brings  you  here?" 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  79 

"I'm  in  hiding  until  to-night."  Merodach  pro- 
ceeded to  explain. 

"Good  ged!  A  door  in  a  cupboard?  Never! 
Merodach,  ye're  romancin' !" 

"No,  sir.  These  houses  were  built  to  accom- 
modate the  Court  of — a  certain  exalted  person," 
grinned  Merodach.  "To  save  much  running  to  and 
fro,  I  am  creditably  informed  that  doors  led  from 
one  house  to  the  next.  But — 'tis  old  history. 
Since  when,  ways  of  communication  have  been 
bricked  up  or  otherwise  covered  over,  and — " 
His  voice  dropped. 

"Good  ged!  Sandbagged?  What  demned  atroc- 
ity!" shouted  Cavanagh.  "The  town  shall  know 
of  this.  I'll  have  Brooke  hissed  off  the  stage." 

"By  your  leave,  I'd  liefer  knock  him  off !"  laughed 
Merodach.  "Harkee,  Mr.  Cavanagh  sir."  They 
moved  toward  the  door,  the  gypsy  talking  eagerly, 
the  smile  upon  the  other's  face  widening  with  com- 
prehension. 

"Gad,  I'm  with  ye,  ye  can  count  upon  it.  Mum? 
Zoons,  I'm  mum  as  a  mackerel.  Ye  snuff,  Mero- 
dach? May  I  have  the  honor?"  The  lid  of  a 
tortoise-shell  box  snapped  open,  and  the  ceremony 
over,  Cavanagh  turned  again  to  Dorothy.  "Ha'  ye 
been  abroad  yet,  Miss  Forrest?  No?  Then  ye'll 
not  have  heard  the  news.  Behold  me,  Mercury,  bell- 
man to  the  gods !  Oyez — Oyez !  Though  to  be  sure 
'tis  too  monstrous  sad  to  make  sport  on't."  He 
dropped  his  voice  and  his  buffoonery.  "Ye  must 
know  Sir  Julian  Carew  died  last  evenin'  quite  sud- 


8o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

denly.  A  heart  attack,  so  some  say.  That's  as 
maybe,  he  went  out  like  a  candle — phutt!"  Larry 
glanced  up  and  found  the  gypsy's  eyes  upon  him. 
"Sure,  'an  isn't  it  strange  that  death  should  shock 
us  the  way  it  does  ?  A  child  comes  into  the  world 
like  a  boat,  an'  is  launched  upon  an  angry  sea :  and 
none  winces  to  hear  o'  that.  But  when  the  craft's 
brought  safe  to  harbor,  why  then  we  shudder  an' 
cry  'Horror!'  Such  is  the  perversity  of  foolish  hu- 
man nature.  Well,  Sir  Julian  was  eighty,  an'  if 
rumor  don't  lie  he'd  had  his  fling!"  He  smiled, 
shrugged,  and  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 
hearers. 

"So  his  nephew  Valerius  inherits?"  murmured 
Dorothy,  memories  of  last  night  crowding  thick 
about  her.  "  'Tis  said  Mr.  Ralph  was  his  uncle's 
favorite." 

"Ah  now,  there  ye  have  me,"  confessed  Cavanagh, 
warming  to  his  tale.  "A  mystery  surrounds  us, 
me  dear  creature.  Bath  is  all  agog.  There's  lit- 
tle else  talked  of  in  the  Pump-Room,  and  the  cof- 
fee houses  positively  seethe  with  argument.  Faith, 
an  election's  nothing  to  it.  But  not  to  keep  ye  in 
suspense — Valerius  Carew  is  suspected  of — er — 
hastening  dear  nunkie's  end.  For  didn't  the  serv- 
ant swear  he  heard  Sir  Julian  speak  of  breakin' 
the  entail  in  Ralph's  favor,  an'  wasn't  he  taken 
instantaneous,  the  way  he'd  not  time  to  do  it?  Sure, 
Valerius  inherits,  but  there's  a  warrant  out  for  his 
arrest  on  suspicion  of  murder,  so — " 

"Good  God!"  ejaculated  Merodach. 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  81 

Dorothy  laughed.  "Murder?  Why,  Valerius 
han't  the  energy  to  kill  a  fly.  I  passed  him  in 
Spring  Gardens  one  sunny  morning  last  week,  doz- 
ing upon  a  bench,  with  a  link-'boy  hired  to  fan 
them  off  his  nose !  I  wonder  he  don't  keep  a  negro 
page.  O  lud,  murder?  What  fool  issued  the  war- 
rant?" 

"  'Twas  young  Ralph  applied  for  it.  He's  vastly 
upset."  Mr.  Cavanagh  rocked  from  heel  to  toe, 
pondering.  "Well,  me  dear,  he'd  sufficient  cause. 
Wasn't  Valerius  the  last  to  see  Sir  Julian  alive? 
Oh,  I've  positive  information  from  the  butler  him- 
self. Valerius  sent  him  below-stairs  of  an  errand, 
and  when  he  returned  Sir  Julian  was  dead  and 
Valerius  nowhere  to  be  found.  Deuced  suspicious, 
an't  it,  on  me  soul!  Demme,  as  pretty  a  mystery 
as  ever  was  writ  to  intrigue  the  patrons  of  circula- 
tin'  libraries!" 

"And  have  they  arrested  Valerius  Carew?"  asked 
the  girl.  "Will  he  be  brought  to  trial  on  such  a 
foolish  charge  as  this?" 

"Good  ged !  How  is  it  possible  ?  Isn't  it  tellin' 
ye  I  am  he's  disappeared!"  exclaimed  Larry  impa- 
tiently. "It's  the  most  damning  fact  of  all.  Lodg- 
ing in  Gay  Street  ransacked,  landlady  swears  he'd 
not  been  home  all  night.  Inquiries  at  all  the  tav- 
erns, none  had  set  eyes  on  him.  Spies  haunting 
the  Baths  and  ambushed  in  the  Abbey  the  way  an 
earwig  couldn't  escape  notice,  an'  all  to  no  purpose. 
Our  gentleman  has  vanished.  There's  some  talk  of 
3  po'shay  waitin'  under  the  big  cedar  on  the  London 


82  MY  LADY  APRIL 

road,  but  I'm  of  the  opinion  that  'twas  another  affair 
altogether,  in  fact — ahem!"  He  floundered,  glanced 
guiltily  from  the  unconscious  girl  to  the  conscious 
men,  and  hastily  changed  the  subject.  "Well,  posi- 
tively I  must  fly.  Ye  open  at  eight,  me  dear  ?  Good. 
I  shall  give  meself  the  pleasure  of  comin',  an'  if  I  fail 
to  persuade  all  the  bloods  in  Bath  to  follow,  demme, 
I'm  no  Pied  Piper !  Faith,  we'll  make  a  night  of  it. 
At  eight.  Miss  Dorothy,  your  very  devoted.  I  kiss 
your  little  hands.  Plucky  child,  ye  deserve  to  suc- 
ceed. Barty,  me  cherub,  adieu!  Merodach,  we 
meet  at  six.  Oh  never  fear,  man,  'tis  too  good  a 
joke  to  spoil.  Adios!  I  protest,  'tis  dumber  than 
the  grave  I  am.  Good  ged,  to  see  Middleton's  face 
when  you  appear !  Have  ye  clothes — a  cloak  ?  Well 
then,  till  to-night.  Miss  Dorothy,  your  most  obe- 
dient!" 

He  bowed  himself  out,  Griggs  followed  to  see  him 
to  the  door.  Merodach  and  Dorothy  stood  among 
the  litter  of  preparation  in  an  uneasy  silence.  The 
care-free  gayety  of  the  morning  did  not  return. 

"Is  Valerius  Carew  known  to  you  ?"  asked  Mero- 
dach at  length. 

Dorothy  shook  her  head.  "Only  by  sight.  He 
don't  attend  the  Assemblies.  The  town  talks,  but 
'tis  all  conjecture." 

"What's  said?" 

"O  lud,  the  usual  gossip !  Mr.  Carew's  an  enigma, 
and  lays  himself  open  to  misconception,  so  'tis 
his  own  fault  if  he's  suspect."  Dorothy  shrugged, 
world-weary.  "If  nothing's  positively  known  you 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  83 

may  depend  upon't  Bath  will  believe  the  worst." 

"You're  bitter,"  said  Merodach,  absently  piling 
up  the  empty  patty-pans. 

"O  la,  yes !  I'm  suspect,  too.  A  grain  of  truth 
in  the  town  talk  is  enough  to  give  rise  to  a  batch 
of  lies." 

"Lake  the  yeast  in  the  parable,"  suggested  Mero- 
dach. 

"I've  not  heard  if  it." 

"...  'which  a  woman  took  and  hid  in  three 
measures  of  meal  until  the  whole  was  leavened'  .  .  ." 
quoted  the  gypsy  soberly,  his  eyes  upon  her. 

Miss  Forrest  shrugged.  "Faith,  you  sound  like 
the  Abbey  on  a  Sunday.  Well,  we  must  clear  up, 
I  suppose.  That's  the  worst  of  cooking — washing 
up.  Shall  we  dine  here?  'Twill  save  trouble. 
There's  pickled  herrings  in  the  larder  and  half  a 
lumber  pie.  Push  everything  to  one  end  of  the 
table  while  I  go  wash  my  hands." 

True  to  his  promise  Mr.  Cavanagh  arrived  soon 
after  eight  accompanied  by  a  dozen  young  fellows 
all  boisterously  exhilarated. 

Dorothy,  sedate  in  a  gray  silk  at  the  head  of  the 
stair,  was  swept  into  the  card-rooms  in  the  whirl 
of  excitement ;  deafened  by  the  shouts  and  laughter, 
bewildered,  a  little  disconcerted.  She  had  intended 
to  preside  at  the  tables  with  studied  dignity,  but 
there  was  small  chance  of  that  among  these  mercu- 
rial gallants.  They  capered  round  the  chairs;  they 
clamored  for  wine,  and  when  she  brought  it  they 


84  MY  LADY  APRIL 

drank  to  Merodach  until  the  lusters  upon  the  cande- 
labra rang  against  each  other. 

For  the  moment  cards  were  neglected.  They 
could  talk  of  nothing  but  the  big  fight.  New  ar- 
rivals bawled  for  details,  and  the  tumult  subsided 
while  Sir  Harry  Kirkpatrick,  gesticulating  from  the 
back  of  an  arm-chair  as  from  a  pulpit,  told  the 
story. 

Crushed  into  a  corner  behind  the  tables  Dorothy 
listened,  comprehending  nothing  of  the  boxing  slang 
of  the  day,  but  realizing  that  Merodach  had  won  a 
brilliant  victory.  Her  pulses  quickened  at  the  re- 
membrance of  her  part  in  his  escape. 

"But,  Harry,  demmit,  ye've  started  the  tale  in  the 
middle!"  shouted  Cavanagh.  "Han't  ye  forgot  the 
rumor  of  foul  play,  an'  we  waitin'  there  the  way 
we'd  be  nearly  mad  with  the  agonizin'  suspense, 
an'  every  man  of  us  stakin'  his  last  groat  on  Mero- 
dach, an'  he  not  comin' !  Han't  ye  forgot  the  cer- 
tainty of  ruin,  an'  Brooke's  supporters  shoutin' 
Tlay  or  pay!'  an'  we  feelin'  as  sick  as  the  Wise 
Men  o'  Goshen  with  the  green  water  lippin'  round 
the  edge  o'  the  bowl!  An'  then  the  magnificent  rev- 
elation of  our  Champion  in  the  nick  of  time,  risin' 
out  o'  the  back  benches  like  Venus  from  the  sea, 
an'  flingin'  off  his  cloak  an'  pitchin'  his  hat  over 
the  rope !  The  overwhelmin'  relief,  the — " 

"O  lud,  Larry,  damn  your  rhetoric !"  cried  young 
Revell.  "  'Twas  like  this — now  listen  to  a  plain 
tale!  We  waited  kicking  our  heels  in  Brooke's 
rooms  until  close  upon  the  hour,  when — " 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  85 

"Merodach!"  hiccoughed  Captain  Godfrey, 
sprinkling  the  company  with  a  flourished  glass. 
"Merodach — flower  o'  British  sport!  Demme, 
boys,  gi'  a  rouse!  Merodach!" 

Mr.  Cavanagh's  voice  cracked  with  his  determina- 
tion to  be  heard  above  the  din.  "But  harkee,  gen- 
tlemen, there  was  foul  play!  Hired  ruffians  sand- 
bagged him,  stripped  him,  trussed  him  like  a  bird 
for  the  spit  and  shut  him  in  a  cupboard.  And  there 
he  might  have  stayed  but  for — " 

"What  ?     You're  drunk,  Cavanagh !" 

"What  authority  ha'  ye  for  that  tale?  I  tell 
you—" 

"Authority?"  vociferated  Larry.  "Wasn't  it  Me- 
rodcfch  himself  told  me?  An'  yonder  stands  the 
nymph  to  whom  he  owes  his  release,  demme,  I  might 
say  his  life  and  his  reputation,  for  she — " 

"Rat  me!     The  little  Forrest?" 

"Doll,  the  decoy-duck?     Never!" 

"Bravo!     Have  her  out!" 

Dorothy  found  herself  tossed  up  on  to  a  table,  and 
flushed,  panting,  a  little  dishevelled,  faced  the  com- 
pany, her  hands  pressed  against  her  throbbing  heart. 

Glasses  were  raised  and  drained  in  her  honor. 
Her  name  was  shouted  amid  approving  cheers.  She 
could  do  nothing  but  stand  smiling,  waiting,  until 
the  uproar  abated. 

"She  speaks !"  cried  young*  Revell,  and  clapped 
his  hand  over  his  neighbor's  mouth. 

"Silence!     The  Forrest  makes  reply!" 

"Gentlemen,"    said    Dorothy   through    dry   lips. 


86  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Gentlemen,  for  your  kind  approval,  my  thanks, 
but — I  beg  you — make  less  noise  or  the  watch  will 
bid  me  close  the  rooms,  and  faith,  I — I  must  enter- 
tain to-night.  Gentlemen,  I — I  know  not  what  tales 
you  have  heard,  but — but  the  truth  is — my  parents 
are  from  home  and  I  needs  must  keep  open  house 
these  two  nights.  So  I  pray  you — will  you — 
play—?" 

She  faltered,  swayed,  and  passed  her  hands  over 
her  eyes;  giddy -with  the  sea  of  moving  faces  all 
turned  in  her  direction,  stifled  by  the  heat  that  beat 
upon  her  from  the  candelabrum  at  her  shoulder. 

Late  comers,  craning  their  necks,  a  tip-toe  on  the 
landing,  were  aware  of  a  sudden  silence,  the  crash 
of  a  chair  overthrown  as  a  man  sprang  to  catch  the 
girl. 

Then,  "She's  fainted.     Open  a  window." 

Cavanagh  carried  her  up  to  her  mother's  room, 
laid  her  on  the  bed  and  tugged  at  the  bell-rope. 
There  was  no  response,  although,  leaning  over  the 
well  of  the  stair  he  could  hear  the  far  tinkle  of 
china  in  the  basement.  He  waited,  fuming  at  the 
delay;  and  presently  ran  downstairs,  prepared  to 
tongue-lash  the  tardy  servants. 

The  bailiff,  lounging  over  his  supper  in  the  kit- 
chen, stared  at  the  sudden  apparition. 

"Where  the  divil  is  the  servant!"  demanded 
Larry. 

Bartholomew  swallowed,  stared,  and  swallowed 
again;  that  being  at  the  moment  all  he  was  capable 
of  doing. 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  87 

"Where's  the  woman,  what's  her  name — Jane — 
Janet?  Miss  Forrest's  fainting — " 

"There  ain't  nobody  here  but  me,"  replied  Griggs. 
"Yon's  the  vinegar  in  that  black — " 

"Good  ged!     Where  are  the  servants?" 

"Didn't  the  young  lady  tell  ye?  Lady  Forrest 
skedaddled  last  night,  an'  her  woman  ain't  to  be 
found,  neither.  Drugged  me  supper  ale,  she  did, 
the  vixen,  an'  when  I  woke  me  mouth  was  like  the 
bottom  of  a  empty  dustbin.  There's  none  here 
savin'  the  young  lady  an'  me.  An'  how  did  the 
fight  go,  yer  honor?" 

"Oh,  Brooke  was  beat,  counted  out  in  the  tenth 
round,"  said  Cavanagh  absently.  "An*  now 
the  question  is,  what's  to  become  o'  Miss  For- 
rest?" 

"Merodach  won,  did  he?  Ecod,  she  saved  him 
for  it,  an'  put  ten  pun  in  my  pocket !"  chuckled  the 
bailiff.  "An'  rat  me!  half  o'  that  she  shall  have, 
bless  her!  I'd  laid  more'n  I  could  well  afford  on 
young  Merodach,  but  thanks  be  to  missie,  he  come 
out  on  top !"  He  reached  his  hat  from  a  bacon  hook 
in  the  rafters,  and  placing  it  upside  down  upon  the 
table,  solemnly  pulled  out  a  dirty  knitted  purse 
and  counted  the  contents. 

"Three  pun  ten.  That'll  be  summat  to  be  goin' 
on  with,  an'  I  shall  get  my  winnin's  termorrer. 
Speakin'  strictly  for  meself,  o'  course,  what  1I  says 
is,  she  saved  the  fight,  an'  bein'  now  penniless,  pore 
dear,  half  my  winnin's  she  shall  have,  so—" 

"Penniless?"  gasped  Cavanagh. 


88  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Griggs  put  the  situation  before  him  in  language 
too  forcible  to  print. 

Cavanagh  listened  in  amazement;  consigned  La- 
vinia  to  perdition;  threw  a  curse  or  two  after  Sir 
George;  and  seizing  the  protesting  bailiff  by  the  el- 
bow, rushed  him  upstairs. 

Play  was  in  full  swing,  but  Cavanagh's  sudden 
entrance  arm  in  arm  with  Bartholomew,  brought 
it  to  a  pause. 

"What  now,  Larry?" 

"Who's  your  friend?" 

"Demme,  a  bum !  What  the  devil  d'ye  bring  him 
here—?" 

"Lud,  Cavanagh,  have  some  decency!" 

"  'Twill  be  my  painful  duty  to  report  this  distress- 
ing lapse  to  Nash!" 

"Gentlemen !  I'm  askin'  ye  as  a  favor  to  let  this 
— gentleman  have  a  word  wi'  ye!"  Something  in 
his  tone  silenced  them.  They  sat,  twisted  round  in 
their  chairs,  leaning  over  the  tables,  half-risen,  fro- 
zen into  immobility  by  the  unusual  spectacle  of  the 
fastidious  Irishman  cheek  by  jowl  with  Bartholo- 
mew Griggs.  The  sudden  production  of  Medusa's 
head  would  have  caused  no  greater  sensation. 

A  dull  color  rose  behind  the  bailiff's  stubble  of 
beard.  He  turned  his  hat  nervously,  and  the  money 
clinked. 

"Begging,  by  the  lord!"  muttered  young  Revell. 

Griggs  looked  up.  "Ay,  sir,"  said  he.  "I  do 
make  so  bold  as  to  pass  the  hat,  egged  on  by  his 
honor  Mr.  Cavanagh,  so  to  speak — " 


LARRY  CAVANAGH  89 

"Faith,  no !"  shouted  Larry.  "Wasn't  it  his  own 
idea,  an'  he  puttin'  in  the  half  of  his  winings  to 
start  it?  Gentlemen,  I'll  give  ye  a  toast.  Barty 
Griggs!  God  bless  him  for  a  warm-hearted  old 
divil !"  He  drank,  tossed  his  purse  into  the  hat,  and 
snatching  it  thrust  it  under  Captain  Godfrey's  nose. 

"W-what  the  dooce  are  ye  about?"  sputtered  the 
soldier,  wincing  from  the  greasy  head-gear. 

"Han't  I  explained  'tis  for  Miss  Forrest,  the  an- 
gel, an'  she  deserted  by  her  blackguardly  parents, 
foul  fall  'em !  A  guinea,  Captain  dear  ?  Good  ged, 
will  ye  be  shamed  by  little  Barty?  Boys,  I  tell  ye 
there'd  ha'  been  no  fight  at  all  but  for  Miss  Forrest, 
an'  where  should  we  ha'  been,  an'  we  backing  Mero- 
dach  to  our  last  crown?"  With  a  running  fire  of 
banter  and  cajolery  he  went  round  the  tables,  shak- 
ing Barty's  disreputable  hat  until  it  grew  too  heavy 
to  shake.  For  having  grasped  the  fact  that  Dorothy 
was  destitute,  the  men  gave  heartily,  and  there  was 
no  more  talk  of  play  that  night,  principally  because 
many  had  emptied  their  pockets. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Cavanagh,  nursing  the  bulging 
hat  in  both  hands  and  gulping  a  little.  "On  behalf 
of  Miss  Forrest  I  thank  ye  exceedingly,  and  for  the 
sake  of  Miss  Forrest  I'll  be  askin'  ye  to  leave  dis- 
creetly an'  for  the  last  time.  Faith,  Revell,  don't 
ye  see  that  we'll  be  doin'  the  child  a  kindness  by 
keepin'  away?  She'll  be  postin'  off  to  her  aunt's 
to-morrow.  I  have  the  honor,  gentlemen,  to  de- 
clare these  rooms  closed.  Good  night." 

Laughing,  cheering,   slapping  the  bailiff  on  the 


90  MY  LADY  APRIL 

back,  they  left  in  twos  and  threes,  until  at  length 
Mr.  Cavanagh  was  solitary  among  the  card-strewn 
tables. 

He  scratched  his  chin  reflectively,  staring  at  the 
money. 

"An'  will  ye  tell  me  how  the  divil  I'll  be  givin' 
it  to  her?"  said  he.  "Good  ged,  what  if  she's  an- 
gry? Deuced  delicate  job,  on  me  soul!"  He  tip- 
toed to  the  door  and  listened,  suddenly  terrified 
lest  Dorothy  should  catch  him  there  and  demand 
an  explanation.  There  was  no  sound  above-stairs : 
below,  Griggs  was  closing  the  door  behind  the  last 
of  the  guests. 

Cavanagh  found  some  snuffers  upon  the  chimney- 
shelf,  extinguished  the  candles,  emptied  the  bailiff's 
hat  upon  the  middle  table,  and  carrying  it  by  the 
brim,  crept  down  to  the  hall. 

Bartholomew  met  him  as  he  reached  the  foot  of 
the  stair,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  supremely 
uncomfortable  silence. 

"Your  hat,  Griggs,"  said  Larry  at  length.  "Can 
you  find  mine?"  The  bailiff  brought  it  from 
the  morning-room?  "Thank'ee."  Mr.  Cavanagh 
swung  himself  into  his  cloak,  took  hat  and  stick  and 
turned  toward  the  door.  "Er — I've  left  the — the 
money  on  the  table,"  said  he  a  little  sheepishly. 
"No  doubt  Miss  Forrest'll  think  'tis  her  winnings. 
Tell  her  Mrs.  D'Este  was  acting  banker.  No  need 
to  be  sayin'  more,  eh,  Barty?  She'll  be  asleep. 
Shut  the  door  softly,  ye  rascal.  Good  night." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TRADEGY  IN  THE  AIR 

"  -m  >TR.  CAVANAGH,  sir,"  said  Harris  with 
%/•  an  apologetic  cough,  "shall  I  admit 

L\JL    him?' 

Young  Carew  turned  from  his  uncle's  desk  to 
glance  inquiringly  at  the  servant.  "I  don't  know 
him,  Harris,  but  then  I'm  still  a  stranger  in  Bath. 
Was  he  a  friend  of  Sir  Julian?  Should  I  see  him?" 

"Well,  since  you  ask,  sir,  yes,  I  would  advise  it. 
Mr.  Cavanagh  goes  everywhere  and  knows  every- 
one. And  in  the  matter  of — ahem — of  the  search, 
Mr.  Ralph,  he  might  be  useful." 

"Gad,  he  might !  Beg  him  to  walk  in,  and  Har- 
ris— sherry." 

Mr.  Cavanagh,  somber  in  purple  cloth,  bowed  to 
Mr.  Carew,  melancholic  in  black  satin.  The  Irish- 
man's quick  eye  appraised  the  fashion  of  the  coat 
and  the  embroidery  of  cut  steel  beads. 

"Faith,  parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow !"  he  mused, 
and  commented  aloud  upon  the  engaging  qualities 
of  the  deceased. 

Ralph  conducted  becomingly:  spoke  in  hushed 
tones  of  Sir  Julian :  poured  wine,  and  used  a  black- 
edged  kerchief  to  wipe  his  lips. 


92  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Compliments  over,  the  two  men  relaxed  a  little 
and  eyed  one  another  across  the  decanter. 

"Sure,  ye  have  a  look  of  Sir  Julian  about  ye," 
said  Larry,  glancing  from  his  host  to  the  portrait 
above  the  hearth. 

"A  family  resemblance,  no  doubt,"  responded 
Ralph.  "I'm  happy  to  be  thought  like  him.  He 
was  a  second  father  to  me." 

Mr.  Cavanagh  opened  his  mouth,  reflected,  and 
closed  it  again  without  speaking. 

"I'm  an  orphan,"  added  young  Carew.  "And  an 
only  child.  Sir  Julian  was  everything — " 

"Faith,  a  sad  loss !"  ejaculated  Cavanagh  to  cover 
the  other's  emotion;  and  floundering  between  cour- 
tesy and  amusement,  became  platitudinous.  "Well, 
'tis  the  common  lot.  Old  men  die.  Young  men 
come  into  their  own.  But  'tis  a  week  now  since 
the  funeral  and  here  ye  remain,  mewed  up —  Oh, 
I  make  no  doubt  ye've  lashin's  of  business,"  he 
glanced  at  the  rummaged  desk.  "But  for  your  own 
sake,  Carew,  ye  should  go  about.  I'd  not  be  urgin' 
ye  to  attend  the  Rooms,  but  a  canter  before  break- 
fast along  Coombe  Down?  Sure,  'twould  be  no 
disrespect  to  the  old  gentleman,  he  was  ever  one  for 
pleasure.  An'  if  ye  care  for  company,  why,  I'll 
be  happy  to  join  ye." 

"You're  very  kind,  Mr.  Cavanagh.  Later  on,  I'll 
take  advantage — " 

"Oh  come,  sir,  to-morrow — " 

"Gad,  sir,  I  hate  to  appear  discourteous,  but — this 
odious  affair  has  hipped  me,  I'll  confess,  and  I — " 


TRAGEDY  IN  THE  AIR  93 

"Good  ged,  my  dear  fellow,  I  take  you!  Dem- 
med  awkward.  But  none  can  think  the  worse  of 
you  because — "  he  shrugged  and  broke  off. 

"You  know  Valerius  ?"  asked  Carew,  a  shade  too 
eagerly. 

Cavanagh  threw  out  expressive  hands.  "As  much 
as  most.  A  queer  fish,  believe  me.  Ye've  not 
met?" 

"Yes.  I  met  him  here,  that  night.  In  fact  I 
left  him  with  Sir  Julian.  Tell  me,  sir,  what  d'ye 
make  of  it?  I've  gone  over  every  detail  until  my 
head  whirls." 

"Faith,  I've  heard  nought  but  gossip,"  responded 
the  Irishman  cautiously;  and  composed  himself  to 
listen  to  a  personal  narrative. 

As  Ralph  ended :  "So  ye  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Miss  Dorothy  Forrest?"  said  he. 

"I  named  no  names!"  cried  Carew. 

''Good  ged,  'tis  no  secret.  Didn't  the  child  her- 
self tell  me  ye  saved  her  life." 

"You  know  her?" 

"O  lud,  I'm  a  friend  o'  the  family." 

"Really!" 

Mr.  Cavanagh  ignored  Ralph's  lifted  eyebrows, 
"Ye've  heard  nothing  of  the  Forrests?" 

"Nothing  but  gossip,"  countered  Ralph,  smiling. 

"They've  left." 

"Left?" 

"Left  the  town,  left  England,  for  all  I  know — 
and  left  Dolly."  Cavanagh  outlined  events,  watch- 
ing young  Carew's  changing  face. 


94  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Good  God!"  cried  Ralph.  "What  inhuman 
brutes !" 

"The  child  was  penniless,  friendless,  but  she  has 
the  divil's  own  pluck.  Will  ye  believe  me,  Carew, 
she  vowed  she'd  run  the  tables  and  win  enough  to 
take  her  down  to  Sussex,  an'  she  with  no  more  real 
knowledge  of  faro  than  a  kitten  playing  with  dead 
leaves." 

"But  she  told  me  'twas  true  she  was  a  decoy." 

"Zoons,  man!  What's  that?  She  did  no  more 
than  smile  an'  speak  pretty,  bless  her!  She  never 
took  a  hand  in  the  game.  Lud  save  her,  she  don't 
know  enough  to  win.  She'd  no  notion  her  parents 
were  sharpers." 

"You  amaze  me,  sir!"  cried  young  Carew  in- 
credulously. 

"Good  ged,  an'  isn't  that  what  I'm  after?"  shouted 
Larry.  "The  child's  needin'  a  friend,  demme,  a 
lover!  I'm  too  old  for  her,  but  you — you  caught 
her  fancy.  Oh,  'twas  plain  from  what  she  didn't 
say.  She'll  trust  ye.  A  young  man  ridin'  over 
the  top  o'  the  hill — that's  what  a  girl's  lookin'  for 
from  the  time  she  can  toddle,  an'  ye — " 

"But  she  forbid  me  the  house,"  began  Ralph, 
dazed  by  the  other's  vehemence. 

"Oh,  the  divil  fly  away  wi'  ye  for  a  fool!  Of 
course  she  did.  She'd  not  be  havin'  ye  ruined  by 
her  Jezebel  of  a  mother.  But  I'm  persuaded  the 
child's  waitin'  for  ye  to  appear  an'  save  her,  an' 
faith,  here  ye  sit  like  an  old  biddy,  an'  she  broody!" 

"Od  rot  you,  sir,  you  must  believe  me  wher  I 


TRAGEDY  IN  THE  AIR  95 

tell  you  that  I  knew  nothing  of  all  this!  Sir  Ju- 
lian died  while  I  was  at  the  Rooms,  and  then  I 
was  compelled  to  post  to  London  to  see  his  lawyers. 
And  since  I  returned — what  with  the  funeral  and 
this  suspicion  hanging  over  Valerius — "  He  broke 
off  and  paced  the  length  of  the  room  and  back. 
"Where  is— Miss  Forrest?" 

"Faith,  an'  isn't  that  what  I  want  to  know  ?"  an- 
swered Cavanagh. 

"You  don't  tell  me  she's  vanished?"  cried  Ralph. 

"She  has,  an'  'tis  drivin'  me  distracted — " 

"But  why  d'ye  come  to  me?" 

"Good  ged,  you  were  my  last  hope !"  Cavanagh 
strode  to  the  window  and  stared  across  the  street 
where  a  litter  of  straw  and  torn  paper  before  the 
Forrest  house  remained  as  evidence  of  the  sale. 

Aware  of  tragedy  in  the  air,  young  Carew  fol- 
lowed him. 

"Is  that  the  house?"  said  he.  "I  never  knew. 
She  wouldn't  tell  me  where  she  lived."  Curtain- 
less,  dusty  windows  stared  at  him  like  the  unseeing 
eyes  of  a  blind  man.  "Gad,  I've  been  so  rapt  in 
my  own  trouble  I  heeded  nothing  that  was  going 
on  outside.  Cavanagh,  if  you'll  tell  me  how  I  can 
help—?" 

The  Irishman  gulped.  "We — we — demme,  why 
should  I  be  ashamed  on't?  We  collected  enough 
money  to  take  her  down  to  Winterbourne,  to  her 
cousin's  home.  The  po'shay  was  hired,  her  bag- 
gage ready.  The  bailiff  took  himself  out  o'  the  way 
while  she  came  downstairs.  An'  then,  at  the  very 


96  MY  LADY  APRIL 

threshold,  a  girl  met  her.  They  stood  talkin'  for 
the  space  of  a  minute,  an'  then  what  does  Miss 
Dolly  do  but  pack  her  into  the  shay  an'  they  drove 
off  together.  So  much  Barty  saw  from  the  area 
window.  But  she  never  went  to  Winterbourne, 
for  the  postilion  was  back  in  Bath  next  day.  He'll 
say  nothing.  She  made  him  promise  to  hold  his 
tongue.  O  lud,  if  he'd  not  been  the  man  he  is  I'd 
suspect  him  of  murderin'  the  child  for  the  money 
she  carried.  But  I'd  trust  old  Jake  with  Potiphar's 
wife  herself,  an'  she  clothed  in  jewels." 

Young  Carew  listened,  and  thrilled  again  at  the 
memory  of  Dorothy  in  the  glow  of  the  chandelier; 
in  the  gloom  of  the  anteroom.  Her  hair  had  smelled 
vaguely  of  flowers — violets — he  knew  not  what.  It 
went  to  his  head  a  little. 

"I'll  ride  with  you  to-morrow,  Cavanagh,"  said 
he.  "If  the  chaise  was  back  next  day  she  can't  have 
gone  far.  Where  d'ye  keep  your  nags  ?  The  Three 
Tuns?  I'll  meet  you  in  the  yard  at  seven." 

But  though  they  rode  out  day  after  day  they 
gained  no  tidings  of  Dorothy  Forrest. 


SPIDER  AND  FLY 

THE  explanation  was  simple  enough,  as  most 
explanations  are,  once  they  are  explained. 
As  Dorothy  crossed  the  flagged  footpath 
to  her  chaise,  a  girl  touched  her  on  the  arm. 

"Miss  Forrest?" 

"Yes?"  Dorothy  turned  and  met  the  gaze  of  a 
pair  of  black  eyes  swimming  with  tears. 

"I — Lady  Forrest  employed  me  as  sempstress,  and 
they  say  she  has  gone  away — and  she — she  owes  me 
an  hundred  and  thirty  pounds.  Oh,  I've  the  ac- 
counts writ  out.  'Tis  true,  ma'am.  I've  had  noth- 
ing but  promises  these  two  years,  and  now  I — " 

"Are  you  in  Mrs.  Deykin's  employ?"  began  Doro- 
thy, her  hand  upon  the  <chaise  dbor.  "Wait  a 
moment,  Jake.  I  must  speak  with  this  woman." 

"No,  ma'am.  I  work  at  home — embroidery — 
fine  sewing — "  The  poor  creature  was  fluttering 
with  anxiety. 

"Beg  pardon,  miss,"  urged  the  grizzled  postilion, 
touching  his  cap.  "  'Tain't  wise  to  linger.  Mr. 
Cavanagh  said  the  quicker  we  was  out  o'  the  town, 
the  better." 

"Then  get  in,  ma'am,"  said  Dorothy.  "I'll  drive 
97 


98  MY  LADY  APRIL 

you  home  and  we  can  talk  as  we  go."  But  it  was 
the  young  sempstress  who  did  most  of  the  talking. 

Dorothy  sat  silent,  horror-struck,  her  heart  cold 
within  her ;  wavering  between  incredulity  and  tears ; 
unwilling  to  believe  that  her  mother  could  have 
been  so  callous,  so  dishonest. 

She  leaned  out  of  the  window  to  give  the  postilion 
a  direction,  and  presently  the  man  drew  up  at  the 
entrance  to  an  alley,  dank  with  drippings  from  the 
eaves,  dark  even  at  midday,  and  lighted  only  by 
a  feeble  oil-lamp  at  one  end. 

"Wait,  Jake,"  said  Dorothy,  and  picking  her  way 
over  the  cobbles,  followed  the  girl. 

There  was  no  food  in  the  little  house :  no  fire. 
A  genial,  childish  old  man  sat  huddled  in  a  blanket 
beside  the  empty  hearth,  cutting  paper  dolls  from  a 
news  sheet.  Before  him,  round-eyed  and  breathless 
with  delight,  knelt  a  three-year-old  girl,  receiving 
each  completed  doll  in  cupped  palms,  kissing  it, 
naming  it  with  a  solemnity  befitting  the  occasion. 

"This  one'll  be  Agafa.  Agafa,  sit  here  nex'  Jose- 
phine, an'  nen  you  can  talk.  Cawoline'll  go  wound 
corner,  so.  Henwietta — oh,  Gwandaddy,  here's 
Jean!" 

The  sempstress  stooped  to  lift  her,  and  shoulder- 
high  the  little  creature  surveyed  Dorothy  with 
friendly,  starry  eyes. 

"A  waif,"  said  Jean  below  her  breath,  and  aloud, 
"Well,  Celia,  did  you  take  care  of  Grandad?" 

A  solemn  nod.  "But  Gwandaddy's  fingers  too 
cold  to  cut  out  soldiers,  so  dey's  all  dollies,"  said 


SPIDER  AND  FLY  99 

the  child,  and  thrust  her  own  mottled  hands  beneath 
Jean's  shawl. 

Something  took  Dorothy  by  the  throat.  For  a 
brief  instant  she  wavered:  Winterbourne,  cradled 
in  the  bosom  of  the  Weald,  beckoned  her:  there 
would  be  violets  now  in  Folly  Lane:  she  could 
almost  smell  the  faint  incense  of  thyme  and  hot 
turf  upon  the  sunny  Downs.  And  even  now  she 
was  on  her  way. 

"If  you'll  let  me  see  your  account,  ma'am?"  she 
faltered. 

Wondering,  Jean  set  the  child  down  and  opened 
the  door  of  a  tiny  kitchen,  bare,  piteously  neat. 

Dorothy  dropped  into  the  only  chair,  her  heart 
hammering  at  her  side,  staring  uncomprehendingly 
at  the  papers  Jean  set  before  her.  The  narrow  writ- 
ing danced  under  her  eyes. 

"...  a  dozen  night-rails.  Two  tucked  pinners 
and  four  plain.  A  spotted  muslin  wrapper.  A 
muslin  gown  curiously  embroidered  with  butter- 
flies. .  .  ." 

Underlinen  of  her  own  was  there,  half  worn  out 
now,  but  still  unpaid  for:  embroidered  stockings: 
cravats  for  Sir  George.  Lady  Forrest  had  ordered 
lavishly,  and  never  troubled  to  inquire  after  miss- 
ing garments.  Janet  had  doubtless  taken  what  she 
fancied  for  her  own  use.  A  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds — 

Dorothy  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the  girl  was  speak- 
ing. 

"I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you,  ma'am,  but  to- 


ioo  MY  LADY  APRIL 

morrow  our  landlord  comes  for  the  rent.  'Tis  long 
overdue,  and  he  has  been — tolerant — "  She  choked. 
"I  had  to  come  to  you,  ma'm,  because  I've  nothing 
left  to  sell,  and  I  must  keep  a  roof  over  our  heads 
for  Grandad's  sake,  and  Celia's." 

Slowly  from  beneath  her  petticoats  Dorothy 
pulled  a  hanging  pocket;  slowly  she  opened  it  and 
drew  out  a  leathern  purse  heavy  with  money.  Shiv- 
ering, she  poured  it  all  upon  the  table,  and  for  an 
instant  sat  gazing  at  it  dry-eyed,  breathless. 

It  meant  so  much  to  her. 

There  was  a  pregnant  silence:  then  from  the 
other  room  came  the  rippling  music  of  the  child's 
laugh,  the  chuckle  of  the  old  man,  and  out  of  that 
heap  of  gold  and  silver  Dorothy  counted  seven 
shillings,  and  slipped  them  back  into  the  purse. 

"I — I've  no  real  right  even  to  this,"  said  she. 
"My — my  parents  are  heavily  in  debt.  So  much 
the — the  bailiff  told  me."  She  swept  the  money  to- 
gether deliberately  and  looked  up  at  the  pale  face 
above  her.  "Will  you  take  this?  And  when  I  can 
I'll  send  the  remainder.  And  will  you  forgive  me 
that  you  waited  so  long?  My  sole  excuse  is,  that 
I  did  not  know."  She  arose,  frightened  now  that 
the  die  was  cast ;  and  leaving  Jean  sobbing  upon  the 
table,  went  out  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

Celia  looked  up.  "A  new  dolly,"  said  she. 
"Gwandaddy's  done  you!  Look!  What  can  I  call 
her?  What's  your  name?" 

"Dolly,"  said  Miss  Forrest.  "Will  you  call  her 
after  me?  Just  Dolly?" 


SPIDER  AND  FLY  101 

"Jus'-Dolly?  (Funny  name!)  Jus'-Dolly,  sit 
here  by  Mawia  an'  Susan  can  squeege  up  a  bit — " 
Her  voice  indicated  the  exact  amount  of  squeezing 
necessary.  She  lay  prone  upon  the  floor,  chin  prop- 
ped on  one  chubby  fist,  her  free  hand  rearranging  the 
circle  of  dolls. 

Dorothy  nodded  to  the  ancient  beside  the  hearth 
and  left  the  little  house  with  seven  shillings  in  her 
pocket. 

"I've  changed  my  plans,  Jake,"  said  she,  as  the 
old  fellow  opened  the  chaise  door  for  her.  "I  can't 
go  to  Winterbourne  after  all.  Will  you  take  me 
back  to  the  London  road?  I'm  lost  in  these  al- 
leys." 

Expostulation  was  vain.  Jake  drove  her  to  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  her  old  home,  and  there  much 
against  his  will  he  left  her,  valise  in  hand,  waiting 
in  the  shadow  of  the  houses  until  the  road  should 
be  empty. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  as  dusk  rose  from  the 
earth,  cloaking  the  valley  and  the  town  while  yet 
the  sunlit  trees  upon  Beechen  Cliff  glowed  vivid 
green,  Dorothy  knocked  at  the  door  in  the  wall  that 
enclosed  Mrs.  Bradley's  gardens. 

She  disliked  extremely  the  idea  of  being  under 
an  obligation  to  the  woman,  but  she  believed  that 
Lady  Forrest  expected  her  to  wait  there  until  she 
could  join  her,  and  Winterbourne  being  now  out 
of  the  question,  she  had  no  alternative. 

She  glanced  up  at  the  stone  gateway,  patched  with 
green  moss  and  orange  lichens,  somber  in  the  half- 


102  MY  LADY  APRIL 

light;  and  for  an  instant  she  was  on  the  point  of 
retreat.  Then  slip-shod  feet  came  shuffling  over 
flags,  and  the  girl  picked  up  her  bag  and  stood  wait- 
ing, outwardly  composed,  although  every  pulse  in 
her  body  was  beating  a  vague  alarm. 

The  weather-stained  door  shook  as  a  bolt  was 
withdrawn ;  a  key  clacked  in  the  lock ;  the  door  was 
opened  a  cautious  crack;  and  a  hideous,  swarthy 
face  peered  out  at  her  in  silence. 

"Is  Mrs.  Bradley  within?"  asked  Dorothy,  in  as 
cool  a  voice  as  she  could  muster. 

A  nod  was  her  only  reply. 

"I  would  speak  with  her,  if  you  please." 

The  bodyless  face  still  gazed  at  her  round  the 
edge  of  the  door  in  an  uncanny  silence.  The  round 
eyes  opened  a  little  wider,  the  jaw  dropped. 

"I've  a  message  from  Lady  Forrest,"  urged  Dor- 
othy desperately.  A  man  was  coming  along  the 
road  and  she  wished  to  enter  unseen.  She  pushed 
the  door  with  her  shoulder  and  as  the  negress  gave 
back  Dorothy  slipped  inside,  to  find  herself  at  the 
head  of  a  little  flight  of  steps  that  led  into  a  square 
court  laid  out  in  flower  plots.  The  house  sur- 
rounded her  on  two  sides,  on  the  other  a  formal 
garden  was  enclosed  by  the  boundary  wall. 

Having  locked  and  bolted  the  door  the  black  por- 
tress shambled  down  the  steps  and  along  the  path  to 
the  porch;  and  here  to  Dorothy's  astonishment  she 
faced  about  and  picking  up  a  lantern,  lifted  it  to 
the  level  of  her  eyes  and  stared  at  the  girl  for  a  long 
moment. 


SPIDER  AND  FLY  103 

From  somewhere  within  the  house  came  the  shrill 
yelp  of  a  kicked  dog:  a  door  banged  noisily:  foot- 
steps padded  along  a  carpeted  landing  and  came 
softly,  heavily  down  the  stair. 

The  portress  made  an  imperative  gesture  for  si- 
lence, hid  her  lantern  beneath  a  bench,  pulled  the 
inner  door  almost  shut  and  with  a  hand  upon 
Dorothy's  arm,  crouched  motionless  in  the 
porch. 

From  where  she  stood  the  girl  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  square  hall  lit  only  by  a  wood  fire;  shutters 
were  closed  over  the  narrow  windows;  among  the 
dark  masses  of  furniture  brass  handles  and  candle- 
sticks caught  the  light  and  peered  out  at  her  like 
evil  red  eyes. 

An  amorphous,  unwieldy  body  lumbered  across 
the  room  and  was  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  stair 
that  led  down  to  the  kitchens. 

The  negress  gave  a  queer  gasp  of  relief  and  push- 
ing Dorothy  out  into  the  court,  made  urgent,  vehe- 
ment gestures  of  dismissal,  grotesque,  vaguely  hor- 
rible. 

Dismayed,  bewildered,  Dorothy  hesitated,  protest- 
ing. 

Night  was  upon  them.  From  somewhere  near 
an  owl  hooted  like  a  jeering  goblin:  bats  flickered 
about  the  eaves  of  the  old  house.  It  was  impossible 
to  walk  back  to  Bath  at  that  hour. 

"I  must  see  Mrs.  Bradley,"  pleaded  the  girl. 
"  'Tis  urgent.  Let  me  in,  I — " 

The  porch  door  swung  open:  a  softly  purring 


io4  MY  LADY  APRIL 

voice  broke  in  upon  the  one-sided  controversy,  for 
all  this  while  the  negress  had  not  spoken. 

"Who  wishes  to  see  Mrs.  Bradley  ?  Come  within. 
Keren-happuch,  what  are  you  about?" 

The  portress  dropped  her  arms  to  her  sides  with  a 
helpless  gesture,  stooped  for  Dorothy's  valise,  and 
led  the  way  indoors. 

"Bring  lights  to  the  oak  room,"  said  Mrs.  Brad- 
ley. "Madam,  at  your  convenience."  She  stood 
aside  at  the  door  and  Dorothy  hurried  by  her,  much 
as  she  would  have  shrunk  past  a  fat  black  spider. 

Having  set  candles  upon  a  table  Keren-happuch 
slippered  away  and  Mrs.  Bradley,  grunting  a  little, 
lowered  herself  on  to  a  settee,  peering  at  the  girl 
who  stood,  wavering,  before  she  found  a  chair. 

"I  believe,  ma'am,  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you  dance  at  the  Rooms?"  began  Mrs.  Brad- 
ley comfortably.  "Miss  Forrest,  an't  it?  Ah,  I 
thought  so.  I  never  forget  a  face,  and  yours,  my 
dear,  is  remarkable.  Would  you  take  off  your  hat  ? 
Such  coloring!  Your  own  hair?  Ah,  remarkable. 
Well,  and  so  your  parents  have  gone  abroad  and  for 
the  present  you  are  without  a  home.  What  more 
natural  than  that  you  should  come  to  me?  Quite 
so.  Doubtless  your  dear  mother  suggested  it?" 

"I'm  persuaded  she  did  leave  a  letter,  ma'am,  but 
somehow  'twas  burned,"  answered  Dorothy,  sur- 
prised by  the  other's  apparent  knowledge  of  events. 
"We — I  found  your  name  upon  a  fragment,  and 
'wait  there'  upon  another,  and  so  I — I  came,  al- 
though— " 


SPIDER  AND  FLY  105 

"Very  wise,'^  purfed  Mrs.  Bradley,  folding  fat 
hands  upon  her  lap.  "Most  sensible.  And  you 
have  your  luggage."  Her  small  black  eyes  peered 
at  the  valise,  and  Dorothy  had  the  sudden,  absurd 
idea  that  she  could  see  the  contents  through  the 
leather.  "Just  personal  effects.  Quite  so.  We 
live  retired,  my  dear.  Almost  a  nunnery."  Mrs. 
Bradley 's  shortness  of  breath  made  her  sentences 
jerk  out  like  wind  from  a  bellows.  "Yes.  You'll 
need  but  few  fallals.  Now,  if  you'd  be  so  good  as 
to  pull  that  bell-rope?  I'm  not  as  active  as  I  was. 
Keren-happuch  will  light  you  to  your  room." 

"But  you  should  know — I  ought  to  tell  you  that 
for  the  present  I've  no  money,"  faltered  the  girl. 
"I  can  pay  nothing,  and  I'd  not  wish  to  impose  upon 
your  kindness,  ma'am.  I  thought  maybe  you — you 
could  employ  me  as  a  sewing-maid,  or — I  under- 
stand clear-starching — " 

"Tut,  tut !"  chuckled  Mrs.  Bradley.  "  Nonsense, 
my  dear!" 

"I — I  should  prefer  to  earn  my  keep,  ma'am." 

"Well,  well.  Doubtless  we  can  find  you  occu- 
pation. But  to-morrow  is  time  enough  to  discuss 
that.  Have  ye  supped?  No?  I'll  have  a  tray 
sent  to  your  room.  Our  meal  is  over."  She  heaved 
herself  to  her  feet  and  waddled  ponderously  to  the 
chimney-breast  where  hung  an  embroidered  bell-pull : 
and  presently  in  answer  to  a  distant  tinkle  Keren- 
happuch  shuffled  in,  listened  in  stolid  silence  to 
Mrs.  Bradley's  orders,  and  carrying  the  bag  led 
Dorothy  upstairs. 


io6  MY  LADY  APRIL 

It  was  a  large  house,  but  in  the  darkness  it  ap- 
peared enormous  and  Keren's  candle  seemed 
drowned  in  the  surrounding  gloom.  Dorothy 
stumbled  after  her  and  down  odd  steps  and  along 
narrow  passages  until  they  reached  a  garret  bed- 
chamber set  among  a  huddle  of  gables. 

Here  the  woman  put  down  her  burden,  drew 
white  curtains  across  the  window,  turned  back  the 
bed-clothes,  and  lighting  a  second  candle,  went  away. 

The  girl  ran  to  the  door  and  watched  her  down 
the  stair,  wondering  at  her  continued  silence,  but 
convinced  that  she  was  friendly.  Then  opening 
her  bag  she  unpacked  what  she  would  need  that 
night,  resolved  that  in  the  morning  she  would  make 
some  excuse  to  leave. 

A  vague  horror  possessed  her:  a  horror  of  the 
silent  house;  the  bloated,  panting  travesty  of  a 
woman  below-stairs ;  the  hideous  old  negress.  In 
sheer  desperation  she  began  to  sing  to  drown  the 
thoughts  that  threatened  to  whelm  her  self-control 
and  unpinning  her  hair,  brushed  it  out.  It  fell  in  a 
shimmering  cloak  below  her  knees. 

Keren  came  back  with  a  loaded  tray,  caught  sight 
of  Dorothy's  hair,  and  plumping  her  burden  upon 
a  table,  stood  staring;  amazement,  awe,  and  won- 
der following  one  another  over  her  wrinkled  coun- 
tenance. So  might  the  Wise  Men  have  stood  before 
Mary  the  Mother,  adoring.  She  took  a  step  nearer 
and  fell  upon  her  knees,  one  black  hand  stretched 
trembling  to  touch  this  golden  miracle. 

"What  is't  ?"  said  Dorothy,  amused.     "My  hair  ?" 


SPIDER  AND  FLY  107 

Against  Keren's  cheek  she  thrust  a  handful,  silky- 
soft,  faintly  scented,  curling  at  the  ends  like  cling- 
ing tendrils. 

The  negress  gave  a  strange,  inarticulate  sob  and 
wrung  her  hands,  rocking  on  her  heels,  tears  cours- 
ing unheeded  down  her  face:  suddenly  she  scram- 
bled to  her  feet  and  with  a  peremptory  gesture  for 
secrecy,  drew  a  wooden  wedge  from  the  folds  of 
muslin  at  her  bosom  and  thrust  it  beneath  the  door. 

Amazed,  the  girl  watched  a  graphic  pantomime, 
and  gathered  that  as  there  was  no  key  to  the  lock 
upon  her  door,  she  was  to  wedge  it  firmly  before 
going  to  sleep. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  whispered  in  response  to  the  ne- 
gress' mute  inquiries.  "Yes,  I  understand,  and  I'll 
keep  it  hid,  but  why —  O  heaven!" 

The  negress  opened  wide  her  lips  and  pointed 
down  her  throat.  Her  tongue  had  been  cut  out. 

Seized  with  sudden  nausea  Dorothy  fell  upon  the 
bed,  sobbing,  shuddering.  Keren  picked  up  her 
hand,  kissed  it,  patted  it  reassuringly;  gathered  up 
that  cloak  of  hair  and  plaited  it  into  a  shining  rope, 
crooning  monotonously  below  her  breath.  Then, 
motioning  to  the  door  she  repeated  her  dumb  in- 
junction, hesitated,  signed  herself,  and  went  away. 

Dorothy  wedged  the  door,  listening  with  her  cheek 
against  the  panels  until  Keren's  footsteps  died  out 
along  the  passage.  The  house  seemed  uncannily 
quiet:  the  doors  were  shut:  there  were  no  lights 
about  the  passages. 

Shaken,  frightened,  she  sat  upon  the  bedside  and 


io8  MY  LADY  APRIL 

ate  what  she  could,  drank  thirstily,  and  slipping  be- 
tween the  sheets  fell  asleep  and  lay  in  a  heavy  slum- 
ber until  well  into  the  next  day. 
Mrs.  Bradley  sent  for  her  at  noon. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PAPER  DOLL 

I^HE  sweet,  small  winds  of  April  came  flut- 
ing down  the  alleys  behind  Murfet  Street : 
wisps  of  straw  and  scraps  of  paper  rose 
in  whirling  eddies,  and,  silver-gray  against  the  bril- 
liant blue  of  the  sky,  a  flock  of  pigeons  wheeled 
above  the  housetops,  circling  lower  and  lower  yet 
until  with  a  dazzling  flash  of  white  wings  they  set- 
tled upon  the  gabled  roof  of  the  mews  in  Stable 
Lane. 

Celia  ran  out  into  the  roadway  to  catch  another 
glimpse,  her  round  face  upturned,  her  hair  on  end, 
shrilling  her  commands  to  the  birds  to  fly  again. 
At  that  moment  a  tortoise-shell  cat  stalked  along  the 
roof  and  the  startled  pigeons  rose  with  a  prodigious 
clapping  of  wings. 

Celia  danced  and  clapped  her  hands,  regardless  of 
her  fragile  family,  and  half  a  dozen  paper  dolls  flut- 
tered sidelong  to  the  cobblestones. 

"O  babies!"  gasped  the  child.  "All  in  de  mud! 
Tut-tut !"  She  squatted  to  gather  them  up,  clucking 
dismay,  murmuring  endearments,  smoothing  Maria's 
crumpled  limbs,  wiping  a  smudge  of  mud  from 
Agatha's  expressionless  face;  and  a  baker's  boy, 

109 


no  MY  LADY  APRIL 

balancing  a  tray  of  bread  upon  his  head,  came  trot- 
ting round  a  corner  and  all  but  fell  over  her. 

"Tired  o'  life,  an't  ye?"  said  he,  halting  with  a 
jerk,  and  swore  as  a  loaf  dropped  and  rolled  into 
the  kennel. 

Celia  rose,  pattered  over  to  pick  it  up,  wiped  it 
solicitously  on  her  pinner  and  held  it  out  to  him 
with  a  wide  smile. 

"Demme,"  sneered  the  lad.  "  'Tis  no  good. 
'Tis  a  mask  o'  muck !  Get  out  o'  my  way,  rot  ye !" 
And  pushed  the  child  aside  as  he  ran  on. 

Celia  sat  down  heavily  in  a  puddle,  stared  for  an 
instant  in  amazement,  dug  both  fat  fists  into  her 
eyes,  and  howled. 

A  shabby  fellow  came  out  of  a  huckster's  shop, 
and  crossing  the  road,  swung  her  shoulder-high. 

"Come  now,"  said  Merodach.  "You're  not  hurt, 
baby!" 

The  child  withdrew  her  fists  and  opened  blue 
eyes,  staring  down  at  her  rescuer's  face,  astonish- 
ment struggling  with  tears. 

Merodach  smiled  at  her,  and  that  settled  it. 

"Howwid  boy  pushed  me  in  mud,"  she  began, 
her  speech  still  punctuated  with  sobs.  "Want  to 
go  home."  She  fingered  her  wet  garments  gingerly. 

"Yes,  let's,"  said  Merodach.  "Which  way?" 
Celia  considered,  and  gazing  round  caught  sight 
of  her  dolls  scattered  over  the  road.  She  wriggled 
violently.  "Must  pick  up  babies.  Put  me  down, 
man.  Frank  you.  Oh,  Josephine!"  She  looked 
from  the  loaf  to  the  doll  in  her  hand.  "She's  a 


THE  PAPER  DOLL  in 

mask  o'  muck!  Dear,  dear!  Miawia — Ooh,  an' 
here's  Jus'-Dolly  quite  safe." 

'What's  her  name?"  asked  Merodach,  stooping, 
hands  on  knees,  to  examine  a  paper  lady  in  a  bril- 
liant gown  and  a  quantity  of  yellow  hair. 

"Jus'-Dolly,"  explained  Celia..  "Jus'-Dolly.  I 
named  her  after  the  beau'ful  lady  what  came  an' 
saved  us.  Jus'-Dolly." 

The  gypsy  looked  at  the  pink-chalked  face  and 
startlingly  blue  eyes  of  the  paper  doll.  "Who 
makes  these  for  you?"  said  he,  a  little  breathlessly. 

Explanation  burst  from  Celia  in  a  flood. 
"Gwandaddy.  An'  Jean  bought  me  some  chalks, 
pink  'n"  blue  'n'  yellow,  after  Jus'-Dolly  had  gone 
away.  An'  we  had  hot  bread-'n'-milk,  'n'  tea,  'n' 
stew,  'n'  a  gingerbwead  dog  wiv  cuwwant  eyes,  'n' 
nen  we  said:  Tank-God- for-a-good-supper-'n'- 
please-bless-Jus'-Dolly-Amen !' ' 

"And  is  Jus'-Dolly  like  this?"  Merodach 
touched  the  paper  doll. 

"Iss!"  Celia  nodded  vigorously.  "Jean  showed 
me  how  to  color  her,  but  7  did  Agafa  an'  Jean 
rn'  Mawia —  Ooh!"  An  ecstatic  shriek  broke 
from  her  as  Merodach  tossed  her  up  on  to  his 
shoulder. 

"Let's  go  home  and  get  dry,"  said  he,  stooping 
for  the  muddied  loaf.  "Down  here?" 

Grasping  a  handful  of  black  hair,  Celia  issued 
directions,  and  presently  they  entered  the  little 
house  at  the  end  of  the  valley  to  find  the  old  grand- 
father drowsing  happily  before  the  hearth. 


H2  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Good  morning  to  ye,  sir,"  says  Merodach,  set- 
ting Celia  on  her  feet.  "My  lady  met  with  a  mis- 
hap, so  I  carried  her  home."  He  told  the  old  man 
what  had  happened,  while  Celia  spread  her  babies 
to  dry  and  trotted  into  the  kitchen  in  search  of  a 
towel. 

"Wub  me,  man,"  said  she,  reappearing  and  pre- 
senting a  fat  back. 

Merodach  hesitated. 

"My  granddaughter's  out,  sir,"  quavered  the  an- 
cient, blinking.  "Can  ye  wrap  the  child  in  a  blanket 
the  while  her  clothes  dry?  Jean'll  be  home  pres- 
ently." 

Celia  twisted  her  head  round  in  a  vain  endeavor 
to  see  what  would,  in  years  to  come,  develop  into 
her  waist;  and  obeying  instructions  Merodach  un- 
tied and  unbuttoned  until  she  slid  out  of  her  muddied 
clothing  and  stood — a  plump,  adorable  seraph — de- 
manding to  be  rubbed. 

At  length,  cuddled  in  a  blanket,  she  fell  asleep 
upon  her  grandfather's  knees,  and  having  spread 
her  small  garments  on  a  line  above  the  fire,  Mero- 
dach drew  up  a  stool  and  filled  his  pipe. 

"You  smoke,  sir?"  said  he,  and  lit  up  for  the  old 
man. 

"Thank'ee,  lad,  thank' ee!  I've  not  drunk  to- 
bacco for  long,  eh !  a  long,  long  time — not  till  t'other 
day,  when  my  granddaughter  brought  me  a  screw. 
Eh,  'tis  comfortsome,  to  be  sure.  I  didn't  guess 
how  sore  I'd  missed  it — till  t'other  day.  Jean  don't 
complain,  but  we  were  come  to  the  very  end — ah, 


THE  PAPER  DOLL  113 

the  bitter  end.  I  know — I  know.  Eh,  if  they  fine 
folk  as  owed  the  money  did  but  feel  the  pinch,  no 
fire — no  vittles — ecod!  they'd  not  sleep  till  'twas 
all  paid  up,  ah,  to  the  last  farden."  He  fell  silent, 
sucking  contentedly  at  his  pipe. 

"Your  granddaughter  sews?"  suggested  Mero- 
dach,  eyeing  a  pile  of  muslins  upon  a  shelf. 

The  ancient  shook  his  head.  "Sews?  Lor' 
bless'ee,  sir,  she  sews  all  day  an'  sometimes  half 
the  night,  an'  taller  dips  do  try  the  eyesight  cruel. 
Beautiful  work,  sir,  wonderful  fine  work  my  Jean 
does.  But  ecod,  she'll  ha'  to  wait  years  for  her 
money — years!  Madam  must  have  her  gowns  by 
such  an'  such  a  day,  but  Jean  can  wait  for  her 
pay.  A  burnin'  shame,  lad,  an'  so  'tis.  But  what 
can  we  do?  If  she  complains,  they  take  their  cus- 
tom somewhere  else." 

"And  these?"  Merodach  touched  the  row  of  paper 
dolls.  "They're  clever.  You  have  an  eye — " 

"Ah,  I  did  use  to  cut  silhouettes,  d'ye  see?"  ex- 
plained the  gratified  old  man.  "Portraits,  ay,  an' 
pictur's,  hunting  scenes,  hosses  an'  all,  an'  milk- 
maids wi'  their  cows,  an'  such.  But  I've  lost  my 
touch  now,  I'm  too  old.  I  make  shift  to  snip  these 
out  for  the  little  'un.  Yon's  my  Jean,  'tis  not  un- 
like. An'  that's  Maria,  a  chair-mender  as  lives 
nex'  door.  This  un  be  Miss  Forrest,  a  sweet  young 
lady,  sir,  on  my  soul!" 

"You — know  her?"  said  the  gypsy,  staring  at 
the  paper  doll. 

The  ancient  wagged  his  head.     "Why,  not  to 


n4  MY  LADY  APRIL 

say  know  her.  But  she  come  here  t'other  day  an' 
Jean  showed  her  they  bills,  ah!  'twere  a  desp'rate 
lot  o'  money  to  be  sure.  Outstandin'  for  years. 
Oh,  I'm  spryer  than  I  look,  sir.  I  know  a  deal 
more'n  Jean  thinks.  But  I  keep  mum — I  keep 
mum.  'Twould  but  vex  her  if  she  guessed  I  were 
wooritin'."  He  fumbled  for  his  hanker  and  fail- 
ing that,  mopped  tears  from  his  withered  cheeks 
with  a  threadbare  cuff.  "Dear  knows  what  would 
ha'  come  of  us,  wi'  that  brute  Arkinshaw  a-clamor- 
in'  for  his  rent  an'  makia'  sheep's  eyes  at  my  Jean! 
She'd  ha'  sold  herself  for  us,  sir,  I  know  she  would 
— the  lamb!  But  praise  God,  it  didn't  come  to 
that!  No,  sir.  Miss  Forrest  paid  up.  Not  all — 
oh  dear  no,  not  all,  but  enough  to  set  us  on  our  feet 
again.  A  sweet  creature,  sir — what's  that?  Who 
— ah,  here's  Jean." 

The  door  opened  to  admit  a  sallow,  dark-eyed 
girl,  flushed  with  the  wind,  her  hair  escaping  from 
her  shabby  hood,  her  arms  full  of  bundles. 

When  he  left,  Merodach  had  learned  all  she  had 
to  tell  of  Dorothy  Forrest. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SUSPICION 

YOUNG   Carew,    riding   beside   Mr.    Cava- 
nagh  on  the  third  day  of  their  search,  be- 
came aware  that  his  companion  was  looking 
at  something  which  had  escaped  his  notice.     Always 
a  humiliating  occurrence. 

"What  now?"  said  he,  staring  over  the  common 
in  an  endeavor  to  discover  the  object  of  the  Irish- 
man's regard. 

Larry  drew  rein  and  for  an  instant  sat  silent, 
fondling  his  mare's  neck.  "Yonder's  Merodach. 
We'll  wait  an'  see  could  he  be  givin'  us  any  news 
at  all." 

"A  gypsy!"  said  Ralph,  who  had  rather  be  dead 
than  unconventional. 

Mr.  Cavanagh  glanced  at  him  and  hid  a  grin. 
"Merodach,  the  Champion — oh,  I'd  forgot.  Ye 
were  not  at  the  fight.  He  beat  Brooke " 

"I  believe  Sir  Julian  spoke  of  it,"  admitted  young 
Carew,  and  watched  the  new-comer's  approach. 
"Gad,  a  fine  animal!" 

Down  a  little  footpath  that  wandered  through  the 
gorse  Merodach  came  swinging  and  halted  a  pace 
or  two  away,  lifting  his  hand  in  response  to  the 
Irishman's  greeting.  He  wore  no  hat,  his  striped 


n6  MY  LADY  APRIL 

shirt  was  open  at  the  throat,  and  a  pair  of  sinewy 
brown  legs  gleamed  below  his  patched  breeches. 

"The  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  ye,  Merodach !"  cried 
Larry. 

"Good  morning  to  you,  sir,  I  was  looking  for 
you,"  responded  Merodach,  and  glanced  inquiringly 
from  one  to  the  other. 

Cavanagh  shook  his  head.  "Divil  a  trace  of 
her.  An'  have  ye  fared  better?" 

"I  gathered  some  news  yesterday." 

Cavanagh  caught  the  other's  hesitation.  "Oh," 
said  he  heartily.  "Sure,  ye  can  speak  before  Mr. 
Carew.  He's  after  the  child,  too." 

A  smile  lit  Merodach's  dark  face.  "She's  given 
away  the  money  you  collected  for  her  journey." 

"What!" 

"  Tis  true.  She  paid  every  farthing  of  it  to  a 
creditor — a  girl  who  sewed  for  Lady  Forrest,  and 
who  was  in  direst  need." 

"Good  ged!"  ejaculated  Cavanagh,  and  began  to 
laugh.  "Good  ged!  Now  if  'tis  not  Dolly  all 
over,  bless  her!" 

"Little  fool!"  cried  young  Carew.  "Why, 
there's  not  the  faintest  claim  upon  her,  what — ?" 

"Miss  Forrest  considered  it  a  debt  of  honor," 
said  the  gypsy.  "Jean — the  semptress — told  me 
the  whole  story.  Miss  Forrest  kept  only  seven 
shillings,  which  were  her  own.  The  postilion  con- 
fesses that  he  drove  her  back  to  within  sight  of 
the  Forrest  house,  but  Baity  Griggs  declares  she 
never  entered  it.  So — " 


SUSPICION  117 

"The  London  coach  passes,"   suggested  Ralph. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  thought  of  that.  But — seven  shil- 
lings!" 

A  silence  fell,  broken  only  by  the  gentle  breath 
of  the  horses  and  the  scrape  of  Colleen's  impatient 
hoof  upon  the  turf. 

"Merodach,"  said  Cavanagh  at  length,  "there's 
more  on  the  tip  of  the  tongue  of  ye." 

Their  eyes  met  and  slowly  the  color  drained 
from  the  Irishman's  face.  "Good  ged,  man!  Not 
that!"  he  stammered,  and  made  as  if  to  push  some- 
thing from  him. 

"No,"  replied  the  gypsy  soberly.  "I've  no  reason 
to  believe  she's  dead,  sir.  But — I  fear  she  went  to 
—Mrs.  Bradley's— " 

"Holy  Mother!"  whispered  Larry,  and  sat  as 
if  turned  to  stone. 

Merodach  remained  absently  stroking  Colleen's 
nose,  and  for  an  instant  neither  gave  a  thought  to 
young  Carew  who  fidgeted  in  his  saddle,  wishing 
to  heaven  they'd  be  explicit. 

"In  a  way,  'tis  my  fault,"  said  the  gypsy  at  length. 
"I  found  some  half-burnt  scraps  of  a  letter  below 
Lady  Forrest's  table,  and  like  a  clever  fool  I  needs 
must  show  them  to  Miss  Dorothy.  A  word  or  two 
was  readable  and  she  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  her  mother  bade  her  wait  at  Mrs.  Bradley's. 
That,  was  before  the  journey  to  Winterbourne  be- 
came possible,  and — I'd  forgot  about  it.  I  thought 
she  was  off  in  Sussex — I  never  dreamed  she'd 
go-" 


n8  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"But  how  the  deuce  do  you  come  to  be  in  Miss 
Forrest's  confidence?"  said  Ralph  querulously, 

"Good  ged,  boy!  What  the  divil  does  that 
matter?"  cried  Cavanagh.  "Merodach,  dids't  the 
child  know  that — ?" 

"She  told  me  Mrs.  Bradley  kept  a  finishing  school 
for  the  daughters  of  gentlemen,"  replied  Merodach. 

"Holy  Mother!"  said  Cavanagh  again,  and  burst 
into  hysterical  laughter. 

Outraged  in  every  instinct,  young  Carew  watched 
sulkily  while  the  Irishman  mopped  the  tears  from 
his  face.  "I  might  remind  you,  sir,  that  you  did 
me  the  honor  to  solicit  my  assistance,"  said  he 
with  superb  dignity.  "Unless  you  make  me  ac- 
quaint with  the  facts,  I  fail  to  see  how  I  can  be 
of  use." 

"Merodach,  you  tell  him,"  said  Larry  helplessly. 

In  short,  cold  sentences  Merodach  laid  the  facts 
before  Carew  and  the  lad  winced  as  from  a  shower 
of  icy  water.  Doubts  assailed  him.  Lady  Kirk- 
patrick's  sneering  words  rose  from  some  corner  of 
his  memory  and  dinned  in  his  ears.  "...  Yonder's 
the  daughter,  out  hunting  game  for  her  mother's 
table.  Keep  out  of  her  clutches.  A  va'mpire! 
Nash  should  forbid  her  the  place!  .  .  ." 

And  the  girl  herself?  He  saw  her  flushed  like 
a  cottage  rose,  shielding  her  cheeks  with  a  gauze 
fan,  denying  him  with  resolute  trembling  little 
hands. 

'  .  .  .  I  like  you  too  well  to  have  a  hand  in  your 
undoing.  It  is  all  true — I — I  am  a  decoy.  .  .  ." 


SUSPICION  119 

Gad!  it  was  all  true!  What  a  blind  fool  he  had 
been.  Her  very  resistance  was  a  clever  bait.  Inno- 
cent? Maybe.  But  what  girl  living  as  she  had 
done  could  be  ignorant  ?  Well,  his  eyes  were  open 
now. 

Rousing  from  his  absorption,  young  Carew  re- 
alized that  the  other  two  were  covertly  watching 
him,  glancing  at  each  other.  What  parts  did  they 
play  in  this  tragi-comedy  ?  What  was  the  girl  to 
them? 

He  recalled  Cavanagh's  visit  of  condolence. 
Lud,  what  was  that  but  a  cloak  to  cover  some  deep 
design?  The  Irishman's  smooth  tongue  had  won 
his  sympathy,  but  what  in  heaven's  name  was 
Cavanagh's  reason  for  inveigling  him  into  the  affair  ? 
He  recollected  that  Cavanagh  had  acknowledged 
himself  a  friend  of  the  family,  had  suggested  that 
he  should  ride  to  Dorothy's  rescue.  Good  lord,  it 
was  all  one  infamous  plot  to  ruin  him.  It  behooved 
him  to  walk  warily,  but  sure,  a  fellow  who  had  just 
returned  from  visiting  all  the  great  capitals  of 
Europe  should  be  a  match  for  a  mad  Irishman 
and  gypsy  vagrant  without  a  coat  to  his  back. 

Young  Carew  picked  up  his  reins  and  ignoring 
Merodach,  turned  to  Cavanagh. 

"My  thanks,  sir,  for  enlightening  me.  I've  not 
yet  had  time  to  become  acquaint  with  Bath,  but 
no  doubt  you  know  where  this  house  lies?  If  the 
young  lady's  gone  there,  nothing  remains  but  to 
fetch  her  away.  I  suppose  'tis  merely  a  matter  of 
a  letter,  warning  Miss  Forrest  of  our  intent." 


120  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"She'd  never  get  it,"  said  Merodach  with  con- 
viction. 

Carew  looked  at  him.  "You've  some  knowledge 
of  Mrs. — er — Bradley's  methods,  perhaps?" 

Merodach  shrugged.  "I  know  she's  a  dangerous, 
unscrupulous  woman.  'Tis  said  she  goes  armed. 
She's  quite  capable  of  shooting  the  child,  if  she 
knew  we  were  trying  to  get  her  out.  There's  a 
ten- foot  wall  surrounds  the  house  and  a  dumb 
negress  keeps  the  gate.  So  much  is  common 
knowledge.  A  prison's  less  difficult  to  break  be- 
cause we — " 

"Really?"  Ralph's  glance  was  withering. 
"Well,  shall  we  meet  to-night,  and  make  the  at- 
tempt?" Blissfully  unconscious  that  he  had  never 
been  nearer  a  horse-whipping,  he  gave  his  back  to 
Merodach  and  looked  at  Cavanagh. 

Larry  shook  his  head.  "To-morrow  at  the  dawn 
we'd  stand  a  better  chance,  eh,  Merodach?" 

Merodach  dug  clenched  fists  into  his  breeches 
pockets  for  better  security,  and  nodded. 

"Then  to-morrow  let  it  be!"  cried  young  Carew. 

A  rendezvous  was  agreed  upon  and  they  parted 
at  the  edge  of  the  common.  Merodach  disappeared 
among  a  clump  of  birches :  Cavanagh,  being  bound 
for  the  Three  Tuns,  offered  to  lead  Carew's  horse : 
and  Carew  walked  home  to  breakfast,  engrossed  in 
thought. 

If  plots  were  afoot,  he  would  counter-plot,  and 
he  was  convinced  that  he  held  an  advantage,  inas- 


SUSPICION  121 

much  as  Cavanagh  and  the  gypsy  could  have  no 
notion  that  his  suspicions  were  aroused.  They 
trusted  him,  and  he  had  the  whole  day  before  him 
in  which  to  devise  a  plan. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  HILL 

WATCHING  his  opportunity  with  the  tail 
of  one  wise  eye,  the  little  brown  dog 
turning  the  spit  before  the  kitchen  fire 
suddenly  scuttled  out  of  the  wheel,  dodged  the 
irate  cook  and  yapping  joyously  made  for  the  open 
door  and  the  sunny  garden. 

"Oh,  drat  the  animal!"  exclaimed  Maria.  "I 
forgot  to  chain  him.  Here,  miss — your  legs  are 
younger  'n  mine.  Catch  him  while  I  mind  the 
joint." 

Dorothy  untied  her  apron,  threw  it  over  her 
head  and  ran  out,  thankful  for  a  moment's  respite. 
Meals  were  a  sacred  rite  in  Mrs.  Bradley's  house, 
and  she  knew  that  the  cook  dare  not  leave  the  spit 
to  follow  her.  She  was  free  for  ten  minutes. 

The  little  brown  dog  raced  across  the  formal 
flower-beds  before  the  house  and  gambolling  over 
the  lawn  disappeared  among  some  bushes  at  the 
foot  of  the  sloping  garden. 

The  girl  followed  leisurely,  calling,  whistling  to 
give  some  show  of  pursuit.  Sparks  thrust  his  head 
through  a  clump  of  guelder  roses,  put  out  a  derisive 

122 


THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  HILL     1 23 

tongue  and  dived  away  again,  challenging  her  to 
catch  him. 

Dorothy  looked  round,  made  certain  that  she 
could  not  be  seen  from  the  house,  and  sat  down 
upon  a  log,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  her  eyes  absently 
watching  the  bubbling  waters  of  a  little  brook  that 
ran  across  the  bottom  of  the  garden  and  under  a 
low  arch  in  the  boundary  wall. 

Great  limes  in  all  their  glory  of  fresh  leaves 
towered  above  her:  beyond  the  wall  the  ground 
rose  steeply,  covered  with  trees  and  underbrush, 
until  at  the  crest  of  the  rise  the  sky  showed  pale 
behind  the  serried  trunks. 

Drawing  deep  breaths  of  the  sweet  air,  Dorothy 
sat  motionless,  conscious  only  of  the  restful  green- 
ness of  the  place,  the  cooling  wind  upon  her  cheeks, 
flushed  from  tending  :the  oven.  The  chuckling 
music  of  the  brook  lulled  her  into  a  half-doze;  she 
stretched  lazily,  and  opening  drowsy  eyes,  caught 
a  glimpse  of  movement  among  the  trees  fringing 
the  top  of  the  bank  opposite. 

A  horseman,  silhouetted  against  the  patches  of 
sky,  disappearing  as  he  passed  the  clustered  tree- 
trunks,  came  slowly  along  the  brow  of  the  hill 
and  halted  to  gaze  down  into  the  hollow. 

Dorothy's  heart  missed  a  beat  and  then  quickened 
to  a  rushing  tumult.  In  a  frenzy  of  suspense,  of 
sudden  wild  hope,  of  agonizing  fear  lest  he  should 
turn  and  ride  away,  she  snatched  her  white  apron 
and  waved  it  desperately. 

A  quick  turn  of  the  head  assured  her  that  she 


i24  MY  LADY  APRIL 

was  seen.  She  waited,  breathless,  her  eyes  upon 
the  shadowy  figure,  hardly  visible  in  the  twilight 
of  the  beeches. 

Then  a  twig  cracked  upon  the  lawn  at  her  back 
and  she  spun  round  to  face  Mrs.  Bradley,  horrific 
in  a  scarlet  Spanish  shawl,  her  head  muffled  against 
the  spring  breeze,  an  ebony  stick  supporting  her 
either  hand. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  such  a  mountain  of 
flesh  could  have  approached  so  silently. 

Mrs.  Bradley  possessed  a  vocabulary  of  which  a 
sergeant  of  dragoons  might  have  been  proud,  and 
now  she  swore  at  Dorothy  until  her  breath  gave 
out  and  she  could  only  stand  gasping,  impotent, 
her  heavy  face  congested  with  dark  color. 

The  girl  remained  silent,  trembling,  white  to  the 
lips;  sickened  by  the  old  woman's  revolting  pro- 
fanity; in  terror  lest  she  had  seen  the  watcher 
among  the  trees. 

"Cook  sent  me  to  catch  Sparks,  ma'am,"  she  said 
at  last.  "He  got  out  of  the  wheel." 

"You  don't  catch  dogs  with  waving  pinners  at 
'em,"  sneered  Mrs.  Bradley.  "Who'd  ye  signal 
to?" 

"Signal?"  faltered  Dorothy,  resolutely  keeping 
her  eyes  from  straying  toward  the  hillside. 

"Ay.     Explain." 

"Sparks  went  into  the  bushes,  ma'am,  and  I 
thought  to  'tice  him  out  to  play  and  then  catch  his 
collar."  Ah  God!  if  only  she  dare  to  look  to  see  if 
the  man  was  still  there! 


THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  HILL     1 25 

"You  lie!"  panted  Mrs.  Bradley,  and  struck  the 
girl  across  the  shoulders  with  the  stick  in  her  right 
hand. 

Dorothy  shrieked,  and  out  from  the  bushes  darted 
the  little  brown  dog,  barking,  snapping,  threatening 
Mrs.  Bradley  with  gleaming  teeth  and  every  hair 
upon  his  back  a-bristle  with  rage. 

Mrs.  Bradley  grunted  with  surprise  and  disgust, 
aimed  a  blow  at  Sparks  and  staggered  backward 
beneath  the  unexpected  fury  of  his  attack.  He 
leapt  at  the  scarlet  shawl,  seized  a  mouthful  of 
thick  fringe  and  tugged,  snarling  viciously.  Help- 
less, floundering,  unable  to  keep  her  balance,  Mrs. 
Bradley  toppled  over  and  lay,  an  unseemly  welter 
of  tossing  petticoats  and  thick  ankles,  struggling 
to  rise. 

Dorothy  glanced  upward  to  the  hill.  The  horse- 
man was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Maddened  with  dis- 
appointment the  girl  caught  Sparks  by  the  collar, 
pulled  him  away,  tucked  him  beneath  her  arm  and 
stood  regarding  the  wallowings  of  Mrs.  Bradley 
with  a  feeling  akin  to  satisfaction.  The  old  woman 
rolled  into  a  kneeling  posture,  and  gasping,  dis- 
hevelled, held  out  trembling  hands  for  Dorothy  to 
help  her  up. 

"If  I  loose  Sparks  he'll  be  at  you  again,  ma'am," 
says  Miss  Forrest  coolly. 

Mrs.  Bradley  found  breath  enough  to  curse. 

Dorothy  shrugged.  "I'll  put  him  in  his  kennel, 
ma'am,  and  return,"  said  she,  and  walked  away  hug- 
ging Sparks  who  grinned  and  licked  her  chin. 


126  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Before  the  girl  came  back  with  Keren-happuch, 
iMrs.  Bradley  had  had  time  to  cool  down,  and  suf- 
fered herself  to  be  hauled  to  her  feet  with  nothing 
worse  than  discordant  grunts. 

The  negress  helped  her  into  the  house,  and 
Dorothy  returned  to  the  kitchen  in  a  fever  of 
suspense. 

Had  the  watcher  upon  the  hilltop  seen?  Would 
he  wait?  Was  it — could  it  be  Mr.  Carew?  Dare 
she  implore  his  aid?  A  fortnight  under  Mrs.  Brad- 
ley's  roof  had  taught  her  the  dangers  of  her  po- 
sition. Her  appeal  might  be  misconstrued,  laughed 
at. 

In  her  distraction  she  broke  two  plates  and  the 
cook  boxed  her  ears,  but  at  length  her  work  was 
over.  She  soothed  her  sore  hands  in  cold  well- 
water,  and  drying  them  on  her  apron  went  out  into 
the  yard  to  give  Sparks  his  supper. 

The  little  dog,  suffering  from  an  attack  of  con- 
science, had  taken  up  a  strategic  position  at  the  back 
of  his  kennel,  and  no  amount  of  flattery  would 
coax  him  out;  so  Dorothy  left  him  a  platter  of 
bones,  and  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  tall  box 
hedges,  reached  the  kitchen  gardens.  Here  she 
crept  to  the  back  of  the  cabbage  beds  where  a  row 
of  old  currant  bushes  stood  close  to  the  boundary 
wall,  and  hidden  behind  these  she  made  the  best 
of  her  way  to  the  brook  side,  breathless,  eager, 
smothering  a  dread  that  he  might  not  be  there. 

The  glow  of  the  setting  sun  still  lingered  in  the 
west ;  a  faintly  green  sky  flecked  with  golden  clouds 


THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  HILL     127 

shone  behind  the  hilltop:  but  beneath  the  beeches 
a  dim  twilight  hid  everything  and  any  one  who 
might  be  lurking  in  their  shade. 

For  a  long  moment  the  girl  peered  upward  into 
the  woodland,  her  breath  catching  in  a  little,  audible 
sob  of  disappointment:  and  then  from  the  guelder 
bushes  where  Sparks  had  hidden,  a  man  rose  and 
strode  toward  her. 

She  knew  him  before  he  was  near  enough  for  her 
to  see  his  face  in  the  green  dusk. 

"You !"  said  she,  backing,  her  hands  at  her  throat. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  turned  her  gold  hair  to 
silver,  her  face  glimmered  pale  as  a  pearl :  he  caught 
both  her  hands  in  one  of  his  and  held  her  close. 

"Did  that  beldame  hurt  you?"  said  young  Carew, 
and  bent  his  head  to  kiss  her. 

Dorothy  hid  her  face  in  the  lace  of  his  cravat, 
trembling,  relaxing  in  the  blessed  sense  of  protection. 

"Gad,  had  I  been  within  range  I'd  have  shot  the 
old  hag,  but  my  pistols  don't  carry  so  far." 

"Were  you  watching,  then?"  murmured  the  girl. 

"O  lud!  I  turned  my  eyes  away  when  she  fell 
over!  'Twas  no  spectacle  for  a  modest  bachelor! 
Did  the  dog  bite  her,  sweetheart?  I  prayed  for  it. 
Come — smile,  or  I  shall  think  you're  not  glad  to 
see  me." 

He  coaxed  her  into  some  degree  of  calm,  spread 
his  cloak  upon  the  log  and  sat  beside  her,  talking 
until  she  had  recovered  command  of  herself. 

Then :     "How  did  you  find  me  ?"  asked  Dorothy. 

"Oh,   'tis  a  long  story — too   long   for  to-night. 


128  MY  LADY  APRIL 

I've  been  riding  out  in  search  of  you  for  days  past, 
and  then,  from  the  top  of  the  bank  yonder — I  saw 
you  wave  your  apron." 

"You  knew  me?"  said  the  girl  happily,  and  waited 
for  no  assent,  so  sure  was  she  of  his  reply.  "But 
I,  I  dared  not  hope  'twas  you!" 

Laughing,  he  reached  for  her,  'but  she  rose 
suddenly. 

"I — I'd  forgot.  I  must  explain  my — my  pres- 
ence here — in  this  house.  I —  O,  Mr.  Carew — 
you  must  believe — I  implore  you  to  believe  that  I 
came — innocently.  Ah  God,  had  I  known  I — " 

"You  distress  yourself  needlessly,"  began  Ralph, 
getting  to  his  feet  in  some  dismay.  He  had  not 
thought  that  she  would  weep:  it  was  deranging  his 
carefully  considered  plans.  Gad,  there  was  no  tell- 
ing what  a  woman  would  do.  He  had  taken  for 
granted  that  she  would  be  overjoyed  to  see  him: 
their  meeting  was  to  have  been  all  laughter  and 
pretty  fooling,  and  here  she  was,  putting  him  out. 

"O  heaven !  You  do  believe  me  ?"  She  clutched 
him  by  the  shoulders  and  stared  up  into  his  eyes, 
stammering  in  an  incoherent  torrent  of  words.  "I 
swear  to  you  I  knew  nothing  of  this  house — noth- 
ing! But  for  the  negress  I  should — she  tried  to 
keep  me  from  entering,  she  thought —  Oh,  don't 
laugh  at  me !  She  thought  I  was  a  saint.  My  hair 
— she  loved  my  hair — she  explained  afterward,  in 
dumb  show.  She  has  no  tongue.  The — others 
are  afraid  of  her — but  she — she  loves  me,  and  she 
saved —  O  lud,  how  can  I  tell  you  ?  I — I  became 


THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  HILL     129 

scullery-maid.  The — the  alternative  that  Mrs. 
Bradley  offered  was — unthinkable.  I — O  God, 
you  do  believe  me?  Say  that  you  do!  Say  it — 
say  it !"  She  tried  to  shake  him,  beside  herself  with 
terror  lest  he  misjudge  her. 

"Dear,"  said  Ralph,  soothing  her.  "If  I  did  not, 
should  I  be  here?" 

With  a  stifled  cry  Dorothy  abandoned  herself 
to  his  embrace.  "Keren  has  the  key  of  the  door 
in  the  wall,"  she  sobbed.  "There  is  no  other.  If 
I'd  escape  that  way,  she  would  have  suffered,  and 
I  couldn't  climb  the  wall.  And  even — even  had  I 
got  out,  where  was  I  to  go — coming  from — such  a 
place?" 

"Hush,  hush!  I  understand,"  murmured  young 
Carew. 

She  lay  in  his  arms  passively,  submitting,  but 
not  responding  to  his  lips,  and  when  after  a  while 
she  released  herself  he  let  her  go  unwillingly.  She 
stood  smiling  faintly  at  his  ardor,  her  hands  busy 
with  her  tumbled  hair. 

"I  shall  bring  a  chaise  and  pair  to-night,"  de- 
clared young  Carew,  carried  away  by  his  own  elo- 
quence, almost  persuaded  that  he  meant  honorably, 
forgetting  Cavanagh's  conspiracy  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  her  consent.  "Is  there  a  ladder  here?" 

"The  gardener  keeps  one  yonder  in  the  tool-shed. 
But  'tis  locked  up,"  she  told  him.  "Where  will  you 
take  me?" 

"Where  you  will,  sweetheart!"  Locked  doors 
were  nothing  to  a  determined  lover. 


i3o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"To  Winterbourne,  then.  To  my  cousin's," 
whispered  Dorothy,  and  slid  her  arms  about  his  neck. 
"Until — until  we  are — wed." 

The  word  brought  Ralph  to  earth.  It  was  one 
thing  to  rescue  a  young  girl  from  the  clutches  of 
an  ogress  such  as  the  Bradley,  but  quite  another 
to  present  her  to  a  curious  world  as  his  wife.  He 
remembered  his  suspicions  of  the  morning;  Cava- 
nagh's  covert  glances  with  the  gypsy.  Gad,  it  was 
all  of  a  piece.  The  little  hussy  was  acting.  The 
very  fact  that  she  could  laugh  at  him  with  the  tears 
still  shining  on  her  cheeks  convinced  him  that  she 
did  play  a  part. 

He  must  keep  his  head:  kisses  made  his  senses 
swim :  he  must  be  cool.  Yet  it  seemed  folly  not  to 
kiss  her  while  she  still  believed  in  him. 

He  tore  himself  away  at  last,  vowing  to  return 
within  two  hours,  and  Dorothy  stole  up  to  her 
room  and  packed  her  few  possessions  with  trem- 
bling fingers,  wondering  how  he  had  discovered  her, 
and  yet  too  happy  to  harass  herself  with  definite 
questions.  There  would  be  time  and  to  spare  dur- 
ing their  journey  into  Sussex.  He  had  promised 
to  ride  with  her  in  the  chaise  and  set  all  her  vague 
doubts  at  rest. 

She  waited  until  the  weary  cook  had  passed  her 
door  on  the  way  to  her  room,  and  then  carrying 
valise  and  shoes,  crept  softly  down  to  the  hall.  The 
tinkle  of  a  spinet  and  a  girl's  voice  singing  was 
almost  drowned  by  the  clatter  of  glass  and  china 
which  came  from  the  oak  room. 


THE  WATCHER  ON  THE  HILL     131 

Mrs.  Bradley  entertained. 

Dreading  lest  she  should  come  suddenly  upon  her, 
Dorothy  paused  in  the  porch,  where,  a  lantern  at 
her  feet,  the  negress  sat  dozing. 

"My  betrothed  is  coming  for  me,  Keren,"  whis- 
pered the  girl,  her  arms  around  the  woman's  neck, 
her  lips  against  the  dusky  ear.  "No  blame  can 
fall  on  you,  for  he's  reared  the  ladder  against  the 
wall  by  the  brook.  I  shall  go  that  way.  God  bless 
you,  Keren!  Good-by!"  She  slipped  one  of  her 
few  precious  coins  into  Keren's  palm. 

The  negress  hugged  her  joyously,  kissed  her 
hands,  and  watched  until  she  vanished  in  the  moon- 
lit garden. 

Young  Carew  was  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  lad- 
der. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LURCHED 

TO  Mr.  Cavanagh,  expectant  at  the  rendez- 
vous, came  Merodach,  footsore,  breathless, 
splashed  with  mud  from  hair  to  heel. 

"Good  ged !"  Larry  leaned  forward  to  peer  into 
the  gypsy's  face.  "What  ails  ye,  man?  What's 
happened?" 

For  an  instant  Merodach  clung  to  the  saddle- 
bow and  rested  his  head  against  Colleen's  satin 
shoulder,  fighting  for  breath. 

"Young  Carew's — run  off  wi'  her — "  he  panted 
at  length.  "Come  to  my  camp.  I  must  have  wa- 
ter." 

Cavanagh  insisted  that  Merodach  should  ride,  and 
the  gypsy  clambered  to  the  saddle  and  sat  propping 
himself  with  his  hands  upon  the  mare's  withers,  his 
chin  upon  his  breast,  dead-beat,  dejected. 

They  turned  from  the  road  across  a  patch  of  turf 
dotted  with  gorse  bushes,  and  halted  at  length  in 
a  copse  of  lady  birches  beside  a  trickling  brook.  A 
pale  radiance  stole  into  the  eastern  sky,  a  thrush 
began  to  chirp  drowsily  from  the  thicket,  and  from 
the  earth  arose  that  faint  murmur  as  of  a  sleeper 
awakening,  that  always  heralds  the  dawn. 

132 


LURCHED  133 

Racked  with  anxiety,  Cavanagh  tethered  the  mare; 
lifted  a  square  of  turf  from  the  smoldering  fire, 
and  putting  on  some  dry  wood,  spread  his  cloak 
upon  a  heap  of  cut  heather  and  sat  waiting  silently 
until  Merodach  was  able  to  talk. 

The  gypsy  drank  and  washed  his  hands  and  feet, 
and  presently  dropped  full  length  upon  the  turf, 
turning  his  face  from  the  glow  of  the  fire. 

"I  mistrusted  young  Carew,"  he  said,  as  Cava- 
nagh began  a  string  of  questions.  "Did  you  mark 
how  he  fell  silent  when  I  told  him  of  Mrs.  Brad- 
ley? He  thinks  us  in  league  with  her.  O  lud>  sir, 
I  know  the  type!  He  conceives  himself  a  man  o' 
the  world,  a  shrewd  fellow.  Always  suspicious  of 
being  fooled,  he  fools  himself.  He  discovers  insult 
where  no  offense  is  meant.  He  scents  intrigue 
where  nothing  is  further  from  the  truth.  Gad,  I 
can  read  Ralph  Carew!" 

"But  what  the  devil's  happened?"  cried  Larry. 
"Where  is  she?" 

"She's  gone  off  with  him  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 
You  see,  sir,  I'd  an  idea  Mr.  Carew  meant  to  play 
us  false,  and  if  he  did  'twould  be  before  dawn.  I 
slept  here  until  nightfall  and  then  hid  in  some  bushes 
half-way  down  a  bank  that  overlooks  the  Bradley's 
garden.  He  must  have  seen  Miss  Forrest,,  some- 
how, during  the  day,  for  the  chaise  hadn't  been  wait- 
ing five  minutes  when  she  came  down  the  lawn.  He 
climbed  from  the  chaise  roof  to  the  top  o'  the  wall 
and  a  ladder  was  ready  on  t'other  side."  Merodach 
smiled  bitterly  at  the  dejected  Irishman.  "We're 


i34  MY  LADY  APRIL 

lurched,  sir,  sure  enough.  Carew  knew  we'd  not 
move  before  the  dawn." 

Cavanagh  swore.  Merodach  bit  into  a  hunk  of 
bread  and  cheese. 

In  the  east  the  sky  flushed  rosily  and  a  lark  shot 
up  from  the  wet  grass,  singing  his  way  into  the 
blue. 

"They  took  the  road  to  Devizes,"  said  the  gypsy, 
pondering.  "I  followed  the  chaise  for  a  matter  of 
five  miles,  to  make  sure." 

"Devizes?  Good  ged,  and  don't  the  lad  mean  to 
take  her  to  Winterbourne?"  cried  Cavanagh,  sud- 
denly jubilant.  "Faith,  'tis  but  a  boy's  love  of  he- 
roics. He'll  carry  off  the  imprisoned  princess  while 
we  sit  discussin'  the  way  we'd  be  doin'  it!  Sure, 
he'll  be  back  crowin'  over  us  before  he's  had  time 
to  get  there,  the  rascal !" 

"You  may  be  right,  sir,"  admitted  Merodach. 
"But — Devizes  might  mean  London.  I'll  keep  an 
eye  on  'em,  I  think." 

"You!" 

The  gypsy  nodded.  "I  know  every  inch  o'  the 
country.  I  can  borrow  a  horse— no,  not  Colleen, 
thank'ee,  sir.  Mr.  Carew'd  remember  her.  I'll  go 
disguised,  and  catch  'em  before  nightfall.  I'll  write 
you — "  He  broke  off,  laughing  at  the  Irishman's 
astonished  face.  "O  lud,  yes.  I  can  write.  You 
shall  have  news  of  me  within  the  week." 

"  'Tis  hankerin'  I  am  to  come  with  ye,"  said 
Larry  wistfully. 

"I  know,  sir.     But  she'll  be  safe — with  me.    And 


LURCHED  135 

you'd  be  recognized  the  minute  you  opened  your 
mouth." 

"Good  ged!"  laughed  Larry.  "I  suppose  that's 
the  truth.  But  -why  not  follow  openly?" 

"Because  we're  more  like  to  learn  Mr.  Ralph's 
intentions  if  he  don't  suspect  he's  watched." 

Cavanagh  nodded  soberly.  "An'  I  trusted  the 
lad!  Well,  I'll  kick  me  heels  in  Bath  awhile,  an' 
keep  an  ear  cocked  for  news.  And  Merodach,  ye'll 
need  money." 

"Thanks,  sir.  No,"  said  Merodach.  He  got  to 
his  feet,  trampled  out  the  fire,  poured  water  on 
the  ashes  and  hid  a  frying-pan  and  some  dried  wood 
beneath  a  heap  of  last  year's  bracken. 

Cavanagh  watched  him  intently.  "Ye're  an 
enigma,  Merodach,  me  boy,"  said  he  at  length. 
"I'm  wonderin'  who  the  devil  ye  are." 

The  gypsy  laughed.  "Gad,  one  who  can  keep  his 
own  counsel  is  a  rarity  in  this  gossip-market!" 

"I  confess  I'm  curious!" 

"In  that  you're  with  the  majority,"  returned 
'Merodach,  twinkling.  "Some  day,  sir,  like  the  he- 
roes of  the  novels,  I  will  sit  down  and  tell  you 
the  story  of  my  life.  But  to-night" — he  glanced 
at  the  brightening  sky — "to-day,  time  presses." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GOAT  AND  COMPASSES 

IT  falls  to  few  of  us  to  have  our  dreams  come 
true,  and  even  our  dearest  wishes,  realized, 
never  approach  the  glory  of  imagination. 

Probably  Eve's  apple  was  a  crab,  or  she  would 
have  finished  it  herself  and  gathered  another  for 
Adam. 

At  nineteen  an  elopement  with  a  declared  adorer 
seems  the  summit  of  desire.  Merely  to  elope:  to 
scurry,  trembling,  down  a  moonlit  garden:  to  be 
caught  in  strong  young  arms  and  kissed  breath- 
less: to  climb  a  ladder  and  be  lifted  in  delicious 
peril  from  the  roof  of  a  waiting  chaise:  to  lie 
against  a  warm  shoulder  and  listen  to  divinely 
preposterous  vows:  merely  to  elope! 

Dorothy  had  dreamed  of  it  since  she  was  old 
enough  to  read,  but  dreaming  youth  never  looks 
far  ahead.  Sufficient  unto  the  hour  is  the  bliss 
thereof. 

The  very  act  of  eloping  was  a  delirious  joy:  the 
one  thing  lacking  was  a  furious  parent  in  pursuit. 
They  had  escaped  almost  too  easily.  Dorothy 
sighed  and  wriggled  into  a  more  comfortable  posi- 
tion: Ralph  wedged  himself  with  foot  and  elbow 
to  resist  the  capricious  joltings  of  the  chaise;  and 

136 


THE  GOAT  AND  COMPASSES     137 

glanced  at  the  sky  above  the  tree-tops,  dark,  in- 
tensely blue,  powdered  with  a  myriad  stars. 

Gad,  what  a  night!  He  thought  of  Cavanagh 
and  Merodach  awaiting  him  at  the  rendezvous,  and 
chuckled. 

"What  is  it?"  murmured  Dorothy.  "I  was  al- 
most asleep." 

Instead  of  replying  he  kissed  her,  sublimely  un- 
conscious of  a  footsore  gypsy,  watching  their  flight 
from  the  top  of  a  rise. 

So  did  Dorothy  elope,  content  to  live  from  one 
heartbeat  to  the  next;  supremely  happy;  never 
doubting  the  gallant  who  sat  beside  her,  whispering 
extravagant  professions  of  affection,  fugitive  vows, 
that  for  the  moment  convinced  them  both.  And 
for  both  the  moment  was  all  that  mattered.  There 
was  no  past,  no  future,  nothing  but  the  dark  chaise 
and  the  stars,  and  the  ineffable  wonder  of  young 
love. 

The  moon  set,  the  stars  faded  one  by  one,  a  bird 
fluffed  out  his  feathers,  chirped  a  tentative  note  or 
two,  and  gaining  no  reply  tucked  head  under  wing 
again  for  another  nap. 

Slowly  the  east  brightened :  a  rosy  glow  heralded 
the  sun:  gold,  green,  and  crimson  flared  across  the 
sky  like  welcoming  banners  in  the  path  of  a  con- 
queror. Drowsily  the  earth  cast  off  her  misty  veils 
of  gray  and  purple,  and  with  a  faint  sound  of  wings 
awoke  at  the  bidding  of  another  day.  The  heavens 
were  all  a-thrill  with  soaring  larks  before  the  sun 
rose  above  the  dim  horizon. 


I38  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Breathless  with  delight  Dorothy  sat  forward  and 
watched  the  sky,  the  long  shadows  on  the  dew-gray 
fields,  the  color  that  crept  into  tree  and  hedgerow 
until  all  the  world  glowed  vivid  green.  Never  in 
all  her  life  had  she  seen  anything  so  glorious  as  the 
dawn. 

The  sight  of  the  postilion,  hunched  in  his  saddle, 
sagging  wearily  to  the  movement  of  his  horse, 
brought  her  to  earth.  The  fellow  was  dog-tired. 

"Ralph,"  said  she,  laying  a  hand  on  his  inert 
shoulder,  "Ralph,  we  must  rest  somewhere.  The 
boy's  exhausted." 

"Wha'?"  muttered  young  Carew,  smothering  a 
yawn.  "Demmit,  was  I  asleep?  What  now?" 

"The  postilion,"  urged  Dorothy.  "Look,  he's 
tired  out.  Tell  him  to  stop  and  rest  a  while,  there's 
no  such  haste." 

"Gad,  he  must  make  shift  until  we  come  to  an 
inn."  Carew  leaned  from  the  window.  "Where's 
the  next  post-house,  boy  ?" 

The  lad  jerked  upright  and  turned  dazed  eyes 
upon  his  employer.  "Anon,  sir?" 

Ralph  repeated  his  question  and  the  postilion 
stood  in  his  stirrups  to  look  over  the  hedge. 

"  'Cod,  sir,  I  don't  rightly  know  where  we  be.  I 
must  ha'  dozed  off,  your  honor,  an  'took  a  wrong 
turn.  That'll  be  Wedhampton  yonder.  We  can 
take  a  by-road.  Only  a  quarter-hour's  ride,  sir." 
He  touched  his  horses  with  his  whip  and  they 
moved  off  again,  while  Carew  threw  himself  back 
into  his  seat  in  a  most  unromantic  temper. 


THE  GOAT  AND  COMPASSES     139 

"Young  fool!"  said  he.  "He  should  have  kept 
awake.  What's  he  paid  for?  Now  heaven  only 
knows  when  we'll  breakfast." 

Sighing  a  little  as  her  dreams  faded,  Dorothy 
reached  for  her  valise  and  unpacked  a  flask  of  wine 
and  some  cake.  The  glamorous  night  was  over :  in 
the  cold  light  of  day  her  lover  looked  sulky  and  a 
little  dishevelled:  his  wig  askew,  his  lace  cravat 
under  one  ear.  He  laughed  at  her  idea  of  a  meal, 
not  appreciating  the  difficulty  she  had  had  to  secure 
even  so  much  as  wine  and  cake:  but  he  ate  raven- 
ously and  was  unaware  that  they  drank  from  the 
same  flask. 

Dorothy  had  sense  enough  to  hide  her  disap- 
pointment, and  denied  that  she  was  hungry;  but 
when  half  an  hour  later  they  drew  up  at  a  quiet  inn 
she  retired  above-stairs,  drank  a  dish  of  tea,  and 
lying  down  fully  dressed  slept  until  noon;  leaving 
young  Carew  to  lounge  and  yawn  on  the  settle 
before  the  tap-room  fire. 

Dinner  over,  they  started  again  with  fresh  horses, 
the  post-boy  surreptitiously  picking  straws  from  his 
clothing  as  he  rode :  and  so  by  easy  stages  came 
at  nightfall  to  a  straggling  village;  and  jogging 
through  a  herd  of  sleepy  cows,  halted  under  the 
sign  of  the  Goat  and  Compasses,  Benjamin  Foster, 
Entertainment  for  Man  and  Beast. 

Foster  himself  bustled  out  and  held  the  chaise  door 
as  young  Carew  descended. 

"You  have  rooms?"  inquired  Ralph. 

"Certainly,  sir." 


i4o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Then  serve  supper  as  soon  as  maybe." 

"Certainly,  sir.  What  would  her  ladyship  be 
pleased  to  fancy?  Stewed  carp  with  fried  smelts. 
A  green  goose,  or  lamb  roasted  with — " 

"O  lud!     Country  fare,  with  a  vengeance!" 

"I  adore  country  fare!"  said  Miss  Forrest,  smil- 
ing upon  the  landlord  to  that  old  fellow's  instant 
subjection.  "Sir,  your  arm." 

Young  Carew  offered  his  wrist :  an  ostler  ran  up 
and  dragged  out  the  baggage,  and  the  host  led  the 
way  indoors,  pausing  in  the  hall  to  call  a  chamber- 
maid. 

"Show  the  White  Roe,  Bess,"  said  he.  "Madam, 
will  you  walk  upstairs?  Sir,  the  coffee-room — " 
He  threw  open  the  door.  "Can  I  fetch  your  honor 
anything?  A  glass  of  canary?" 

Young  Carew  entered,  discovered  a  gentleman  in 
black  dozing  upon  two  chairs,  and  turned  irrita- 
bly. 

"I  prefer  a  private  room,"  he  began. 

The  landlord  was  apologetic.  There  was  no  other 
room.  "Sure,  sir,  the  Spanish  gentleman — " 

The  figure  upon  the  hearth  yawned,  sat  upright, 
and  scowled  over  his  shoulder.  "Dios  me  guarde!" 
said  he.  "I  desired  to  be  alone,  fellow." 

The  landlord  craved  their  honors'  pardons. 
There  was  no  other  room.  He  trusted — 

The  Spaniard  flicked  impatient  fingers.  "Enough. 
Give  him  fresh  horses.  The  next  inn  will  suit  him 
better  than  this." 


<fO  sir,  there's  a  lady,"  stammered  Foster,  con- 
cerned at  the  prospect  of  losing  custom. 

At  that  the  man  in  black  rose  and  bowed  with  a 
magnificence  young  Carew  strove  in  vain  to  imitate. 

"Senor,"  said  he  with  grave  courtesy,  "we  have 
a  proverb  in  Spain — 'The  best  right  is  the  oldest — • 
possession.'  This  room  is  mine,  but  you  will  honor 
me  by  becoming  my  guests.  Sirrah,  serve  the  sup- 
per I  ordered,  and  lay  covers  for  three." 

"Sir,  you  overwhelm  me,"  began  Ralph,  a  little 
awed  by  the  assurance  of  the  other's  manner.  Here 
doubtless  was  some  great  man,  accustomed  to  un- 
questioning obedience. 

"El  diablo!  'Tis  nought.  Will  you  sit,  senor? 
And  landlord,  a  bottle  of  Oporto." 

Relieved  and  beaming,  Foster  hurried  out;  and 
young  Carew,  throwing  hat  and  cloak  aside,  crossed 
to  the  wide  hearth  and  took  the  chair  the  Spaniard 
offered. 

"I  fear  to  discommode  you  sir,"  he  began,  rest- 
less under  the  other's  flow  of  compliment. 

"Por  dios,  senor,  no!  I  expected  rustics,  clod- 
hoppers. Egad,  senor,  wine  loses  half  its  flavor 
when  drunk  alone  and  without  a  toast.  You  and 
your  wife  are  more  than  welcome!"  He  rose  with 
lithe  grace  as  a  maid  carried  in  glasses  and  a  cob- 
webbed  bottle.  "You've  not  shaken  it,  my  dear?" 

"O  la,  sir,  no !"  she  giggled. 

"The  corkscrew?  Ha!  A  mala  cama  es  bueno 
colchon  de  vino!"^,H.e  glanced  at  young  Carew. 


i42  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"You  speak  my  language,  seiior?  No?  Ah,  then 
must  I  translate.  Your  glass.  Sir,  to  you !  Heaven 
knows  how  we  shall  sleep  to-night  and — 'wine 
makes  a  good  cover  for  a  bad  bed !'  '  He  threw 
back  his  head  and  laughed,  refilling  Ralph's  glass. 
"Gad,  this  cursed  English  climate  chills  my  very 
•bones!" 

"Yet  'tis  said  'tis  the  climate  makes  us  what  we 
are,"  quoth  young  Carew  complacently. 

"Indeed,  senor?  You  have  my  sympathies!" 
He  shivered  and  held  out  brown,  heavily  ringed 
hands  to  the  blaze. 

"You  travel  alone,  sir?"  said  Ralph,  wondering 
if  he  should  venture  to  warn  this  stranger  that  so 
much  jewelry  invited  attack. 

"At  present,  yes.  'Tis  my  whim.  English  flunk- 
ies bore  me,  and  my  own  man  had  the  audacity  to 
fall  sick  in — el  diablo — what  was  the  name  of  the 
place?  Chick — shist — ah,  Chickchester." 

"Unfortunate!"  agreed  young  Carew.  "And 
what  of  the  roads,  sir?" 

The  Spaniard  shrugged.  "Roads?  You  call 
them  roads?  Bad  enough  for  a  horseman.  Al- 
most impossible  for  a  chaise." 

"Demmit,"  says  Ralph,  savoring  his  wine.  "And 
I'm  in  haste." 

"You  are  for  Chickchester,  senor?  Then 
avoid — " 

"No.     We  travel  to  London." 

"Ah!  Madam  goes  to  court,  doubtless.  Senor, 
the  bottle's  with  you." 


THE  GOAT  AND  COMPASSES     143 

The  maid  knocked  and  entered  to  superintend  the 
laying  of  supper,  and  young  Carew  excused  him- 
self and  went  above-stairs  to  make  a  toilet.  He 
found  Miss  Forrest  at  the  dresser,  brushing  her 
hair. 

"Who's  there?"  she  cried  as  the  door  opened ;  and 
catching  sight  of  Carew  in  the  mirror,  turned, 
blushing  rosily.  "Oh,  'tis  you,  Ralph.  Did  you 
miss  your  way?" 

"There's  a  stranger  below,"  said  he,  ignoring 
her  question.  "A  Spaniard.  I  distrust  these  for- 
eigners. D'you  mind  supping  alone?" 

"Here?"   said  she,  astonished. 

"Yes.  I'm  sorry,  but  there's  no  private  room, 
and  the  fellow's  drinking  like  a  fish.  'Twill  be 
more  comfortable  for  you,  Doll.  'Tis  disappoint- 
ing— but  d'ye  mind?"  He  pulled  her  up  to  him 
and  kissed  her.  "I'll  come  up — later.  Gad,  what 
hair !  -D'ye  know  you're  a  beauty,  Doll  ?" 

She  dimpled.  "O  lud,  what  woman  considers 
herself  plain?  Loose  me,  Ralph — some  one — " 

"Oh,  I  told  the  landlord  to  send  up  your  sup- 
per," said  he,  and  as  the  chambermaid  entered  with 
a  tray,  he  strolled  over  to  the  window. 

"Hello?     A  gallery?" 

Miss  Forrest  nodded  a  dismissal  to  the  servant. 

"Yes.  The  other  rooms  along  this  wing  open  on 
to  it.  Bess — the  maid — told  me  they've  been  adding 
to  the  house.  That's  the  courtyard  below.  The 
stables  are  on  t'other  side,  and  that  archway  leads 
into  the  road." 


144  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Ralph  looked  at  her  curiously.  "You've  been 
making  inquiries.  Why?" 

"O  la!"  cried  Dorothy,  laughing  a  little  shame- 
facedly. "  Tis  more — more  romantic.  Look!  If 
we  were  pursued — if  we  had  to  escape  from  the 
house  'twere  easy  to  climb  through  this  window  on 
to  the  gallery  and  run  down  the  stair  into  the  court 
and  so  to  the  stables.  Oh,  I  know  we  are  safe — 
but  an  elopement — " 

"Gad,  what  a  little  fantastic  it  is!"  laughed 
Ralph,  an  arm  about  her.  "Safe?  Of  course 
you're  safe!  Who's  to  pursue  us?" 

Sudden  loneliness  whelmed  her :  she  clung  to  him 
and  bit  her  lip.  "No  one,  Ralph.  None  cares 
two  straws  what  becomes  of  me.  None  but  you. 
I  almost  could  wish  I'd  a  curmudgeon  of  a 
guardian." 

"Take  my  word  for  it,  sweet,  'tis  vastly  more 
comfortable  lacking  one !  Interfering  old  creatures, 
for  ever  urging  a  man  to — to  do  this  or  that.  Well, 
supper  waits.  Lend  me  your  comb." 

"  'Tis  monstrous  indelicate — before  we  are  wed," 
faltered  the  girl  as  he  took  off  his  wig  to  smooth 
it,  and  flicked  the  dust  from  his  shoulders  with  her 
brush. 

"Nonsense !"  laughed  Ralph.  "Don't  be  squeam- 
ish! Have  I  to  ask  permission  of  the  church  to 
kiss  you?"  He  glanced  in  the  mirror,  shot  his 
ruffles,  and  hurried  off. 

Dorothy  sighed.  He  had  not  kissed  her.  Had 
her  prudery  rebuffed  him?  A  Spaniard  below- 


THE  GOAT  AND  COMPASSES    145 

stairs?  It  would  have  been  prodigious  intriguing 
to  meet  a  Spaniard.  Dark  as  a  gypsy,  doubtless: 
mysterious,  fascinating.  She  wished  Ralph  had  let 
her  eat  with  them.  Was  he  jealous?  Was  he 
ashamed  of  her?  It  was  annoying  to  be  shut  up 
here  like  a  child  in  a  nursery.  Almost  she  resolved 
to  brave  his  displeasure  and  go  down. 

She  went  to  the  table  and  lifted  the  covers:  a 
plateful  of  roast  goose  and  greens.  She  loathed 
greens.  Stewed  fish,  rapidly  cooling.  They  had 
not  even  the  decency  to  keep  one  plate  until  she 
had  eaten  the  first  course.  Flushing  angrily  she 
looked  about  her  for  a  bell ;  and  found  none.  It  was 
humiliating  to  be  so  treated.  She  should  have  been 
offered  a  choice  of  food:  attended  while  she  ate. 
Carew  was  altogether  too  domineering.  She  must 
teach  him  his  manners. 

A  flushed,  imperious  maid  confronted  her  in  the 
oval  mirror;  she  touched  her  hair,  pulled  out  the 
crushed  laces  at  her  breast,  her  heart  quickening 
with  excitement  and  indignation. 

She  swept  to  the  door.  Just  so  would  she  sail 
down  to  sup  with  the  Spaniard.  Lud,  she  might 
even  flirt  a  little  to  punish  Carew,  the  presumptuous 
popinjay.  She  would — 

Her  hand  fell  on  the  latch.  The  door  was  locked 
from  the  outside. 

Don  Carlos  received  Ralph's  apologies  with  an 
amazed  hauteur  that  rather  alarmed  the  younger 
man.  Madam  refused  his  invitation?  Impossible! 
She  must  have  misunderstood. 


i46  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Carew  was  desolated,  but  in  fact,  Madam  was 
excessively  tired  and  in  no  state  to  meet  so  dis- 
tinguished a  traveler  as  the  gentleman  from  Spain. 

Supper  began  in  an  atmosphere  of  frigid  polite- 
ness, but  with  the  wine  and  walnuts  Don  Carlos 
relaxed  a  little;  eyeing  young  Carew  from  the 
shadows  of  his  black  wig;  leaning  languidly  in  his 
tilted  chair;  his  hand  continually  reaching  for  the 
bottle.  But  though  he  drank  little  he  saw  that  his 
guest's  glass  was  never  empty. 

Ralph  considered  him  a  very  good  fellow  and  re- 
called some  of  his  European  adventures  that  made 
the  Spaniard  chuckle  and  slap  his  knee. 

"There  was  a  little  girl  in  Berlin,"  says  Ralph 
fatuously.  "A  sweet  jade,  but — too  plump — and 
silent!  Faith,  she  kept  her  mouth  that  shut  you'd 
be  sworn  her  teeth  fitted  ill.  But  no!  I  made  her 
show  me  one  day.  All  her  own  and  white  as  milk." 

"In  a  silent  woman,"  returned  the  Spaniard  sen- 
tentiously.  "In  a  silent  woman  there  is  either  in- 
effable goodness,  or — the  devil's  own  wiles !" 

"Gad,  that's  true!"  Young  Carew  found  his 
glass  brimming  and  drank  carefully.  The  wine  was 
too  good  to  spill,  a  heady  wine,  full  flavored.  He 
hardly  remembered  to  have  tasted  such  before.  Odd, 
to  find  a  vintage  in  an  out  o'  the  way  spot  like  this ! 
He  finished  his  glass.  "That's  true,"  he  repeated 
owlishly.  "They're  deep,  deuced  deep!" 

"A  man  of  your  experience  should  be — ha — 
safe."  Don  Carlos  heaved  a  sigh.  "Now  I  was 
brought  up  rustically." 


THE  GOAT  AND  COMPASSES     147 

"You  astound  me,  sir!"  exclaims  Ralph. 

"  'Tis  true.  A  boyhood  passed  among  our  vine- 
yards, tied — as  you  say — to  a  woman's  apron-string 
— oh,  'tis  the  damnedest  dull  dog's  life!  Me,  I  fall 
victim  to  every  single  woman  I  meet,  and  some — 
helas! — who  are  not  single.  Senor,  you  drink 
nothing."  He  refilled  Ralph's  glass.  "You  did 
well  to  keep  your  wife  above-stairs!  Well  for  me, 
that  is!"  He  laughed  tipsily.  "I  make  no  doubt 
she's  a  paragon  of  all  the  virtues,  hey?  O  la,  laf 
These  English  women,  all  ice!" 

Young  Carew  chuckled.  "Oh,  as  to  that,  sir,  you 
mistake.  We  are,  in  fact,  eloping.  Miss  an't  wed 
yet,  though  she  thinks  to  be,  to-morrow." 

"Ah!  Manana,  manana!  Es  eterna  duration  la 
de  aquesta  tu  manana!  So  you're  for  London, 
senor?  A  three  days'  journey — " 

"  'Twill  serve  my  turn,"  said  young  Carew 
thickly,  made  to  rise,  and  subsided  again  into  his 
seat.  "Rat  me!"  he  hiccoughed.  "This  wine  o* 
yours,  sir,  m — monstrous  heady!" 

"You  find  it  so?"  Don  Carlos  rose  in  some  con- 
cern. "Let  me  give  you  an  arm,  senor."  He 
pulled  the  young  fellow  to  his  feet  and  steadied  him 
a  moment.  "Now,  shall  we  advance?  Where  lies 
your  room?" 

"The— the  Whi'  Roe,"  chuckled  Ralph,  lurch- 
ing forward.  "Mos'  'propriate.  Upstairs,  first 
on  righ'.  Got  key  somewhere,  he,  he!  Made  sure 
of  her!"  He  halted  at  the  head  of  the  stair  to 
fumble  in  a  waistcoat  pocket,  and  the  key  dropped 


i48  MY  LADY  APRIL 

from   his    shaking   fingers   to   the   polished    floor. 

Don  Carlos  swooped  upon  it,  and  rising,  shot 
out  his  left  fist  and  caught  young  Carew  beneath 
the  ear.  The  lad  went  down  like  an  ox  and  lay 
as  one  dead. 

Don  Carlos  bent  above  him  for  an  instant,  lis- 
tened at  the  head  of  the  stairs;  and  then  fitting  the 
key  into  the  painted  door  of  the  White  Roe,  opened 
it,  entered  swiftly,  and  locked  it  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ALARUMS 

MISS  FORREST  was  in  tears  upon  the  bed 
and  sat  up  startled,  clutching  at  her  dis- 
ordered dress. 

The  candles  on  the  dresser  showed  her,  motion- 
less against  the  door,  a  tall  figure  all  in  black :  black 
cloak,  black  riding  boots  buckled  with  steel,  straight 
black  brows,  black  curls  falling  closely  about  a 
swarthy  face. 

A  shriek  died  in  her  throat;  she  stared,  marvel- 
ing that  his  eyes  were  shut. 

"Child,"  said  the  Spaniard,  smiling,  "are  ye 
abed?" 

"N-no!"  gasped  Dorothy. 

He  opened  laughing  dark  eyes  and  swept  the 
heavy  wig  from  his  head. 

"Merodach!"  she  cried,  and  slid  to  the  floor, 
pattering  over  to  him  in  silk-clad  feet.  "Merodach  ? 
I  thought  you — " 

"So  did  Mr.  Carew !"  said  Merodach.  "My  dis- 
guise is  a  good  one.  Quick,  on  with  your  cloak 
— your  shoes — "  He  strode  to  the  window. 
"We've  no  time  to  spare.  Carew'll  recover  con- 
sciousness, and — " 

"You've  fought?" 

149 


i5o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Gad,  no,  child,"  he  soothed  her.  "I  floored 
him  as  I  floored  Barty  Griggs — as  I'd  floor  any 
man  who  meant  you  ill — " 

"111  ?"  she  cried.  "Mr.  Carew  means  no  ill,  what 
d'you—  ?" 

"Zoons,  there's  no  time  for  explanation." 

"You  must  explain,"  insisted  the  girl.  "I  eloped 
with  him.  Why  should  I  leave  him  now?" 

For  an  instant  Merodach  hesitated.  "Where  was 
he  taking  you?"  he  said  at  length. 

"Where  ?  To  Winterbourne,  to  my  cousin's,  un- 
til we  could  be  wed." 

"He  lied,"  said  Merodach,  and  as  she  cried  out 
indignantly,  "Child,  you  must  trust  me.  'Fore 
God  I'll  tell  you  all  when  we're  safe  out  o'  this. 
He  may  recover  at  any  minute,  and — I'd  not  will- 
ingly fight  him.  Come,  your  cloak —  O  lud,  you 
will  have  it?  I  tell  you  he  boasted  to  me  that  he 
was  taking  you  to  London,  and  he  laughed  at  the 
idea  of  marriage,  and — he  had  the  key  of  your 
door." 

"O  God!"  sobbed  Dorothy,  dry-eyed,  swaying 
under  the  blow.  "Is  this  true  ?" 

"I  swear  it.  I  stunned  him  as  he  tried  to  fit 
the  key  in  the  lock.  He  lies  just  outside — shall 
I  show  you?" 

"No!"  cried  the  girl,  distractedly  fumbling  with 
her  shoes.  "No,  I'll  believe  you,  Merodach.  What 
shall  I  do?" 

"Come  with  me  to  Winterbourne." 

Sobbing,   trembling,   she  suffered  herself  to  be 


ALARUMS  151 

lifted  to  the  window-sill,  and  huddled  upon  the 
broad  ledge,  waited  while  the  gypsy  dropped  her 
bag  on  to  the  gallery  and  climbed  out.  It  was  all 
he  could  do  to  squeeze  through  the  square  opening. 
She  followed;  was  set  upon  her  feet  and  led  down 
the  outer  stair  into  the  courtyard.  The  chaise  was 
standing  beneath  the  dark  archway. 

Merodach  hurried  into  it,  made  her  sit  upon  the 
floor  and  covered  her  with  the  traveling  rugs.  Then 
he  crossed  to  the  stables  and  knocked  upon  the 
half -open  door. 

An  ostler  sat  up  among  a  litter  of  straw,  rubbing 
dazed  eyes. 

"Where's  Mr.  Carew's  post-boy?"  asked  Mero- 
dach, leaning  forward  into  the  dark  stable. 

"Asleep  in  the  loft,  sir.     He's  dead  beat." 

"Don't  waken  him.  Put  fresh  horses  into  the 
chaise.  A  guinea  if  you're  quick  and  quiet." 

Accustomed  to  the  vagaries  of  carriage-folk,  the 
lad  obeyed  without  question. 

Merodach  went  back  to  Dorothy.  "Give  me  one 
of  your  slippers,"  said  he.  "Have  you  an  old  one 
you  can  spare?  Good.  Can  you  find  it?"  He 
opened  her  valise  upon  the  seat,  and  kneeling,  she 
dug  out  a  pink  satin  slipper,  high-heeled,  dainty. 

He  stood  regarding  it  for  an  instant  with  a  whim- 
sical smile.  "This  is  the  oldest  you  have,  child?" 

"Indeed,  yes.  'Tis  near  worn  through.  I'll  not 
need  it." 

"No,"  said  he  a  little  grimly.  "You'll  not  need 
it."  He  went  out  under  the  archway  and  em- 


i52  MY  LADY  APRIL 

bedded  it  in  the  mud  of  the  road.  Then,  hidden 
in  the  shadows,  he  stripped  off  cloak,  coat  and 
breeches,  and  stood  clad  in  the  shabby  brown  clothes 
he  habitually  wore.  Rolling  the  wig  in  the  dis- 
guise he  tossed  the  bundle  into  the  hay-mow  above 
the  arch,  hid  his  jewels  in  a  belt  beneath  his  shirt, 
and  from  the  roof  of  the  chaise  took  the  postilion's 
whip  and  cap. 

The  ostler  ran  out  leading  a  horse  in  either  hand. 

"Have  you  a  good  memory,  boy?"  asked  Mero- 
dach,  buckling  the  off  traces. 

Tom  Ostler  caught  the  clink  of  coins.  "That's 
as  mebbe,  sir,"  said  he,  grinning. 

"Then  let  this  drown  it!  You've  been  asleep  in 
your  stable  since  supper-time." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"You  saw  nothing  and  heard  nothing." 

"Not  me,  y'r  honor!  Thank'ee  sir.  Yes,  I  do 
sleep  uncommon  heavy,  to  be  sure."  He  led  the 
chaise  out  into  the  highway;  watched  with  profes- 
sional appreciation  as  Merodach  looked  his  horses 
over  and  got  to  saddle;  and  stood  for  a  moment 
polishing  the  gold  in  his  hand  before  he  buttoned 
it  into  a  pocket.  Then,  the  road  being  empty,  he 
stooped  to  examine  something  in  the  mud,  swore 
beneath  his  breath,  and  returned  chuckling  to  his 
bed  in  the  straw. 

"Ecod,"  said  he.     "Here's  a  pretty  go !" 

The  chambermaid,  remembering  madam's  supper 
tray,  ran  upstairs  to  fetch  it,  and  discovered  Mr. 


ALARUMS  153 

Carew  prone  upon  the  door-sill  of  the  White  Roe, 
and  bleeding  from  a  scratch  upon  the  temple. 

Her  cries  brought  the  landlord,  and  between  them 
they  revived  the  unconscious  gallant  and  helped  him 
into  an  unoccupied  bedroom  across  the  landing. 

"Wha — wha's  happened?"  said  he,  fingering  his 
jaw;  staring  at  a  spot  of  blood  upon  his  coat. 

"Why,  sir,  Bess  found  ye  a-layin'  full  length  as 
it  might  be  dead.  It  scared  her  proper."  Foster 
handed  a  sponge.  "I  take  it  the  wine  got  into  your 
head,  sir,  an'  ye  fell  an'  cut  yersel'  agen  the  door- 
frame like." 

Ralph  grunted,  feeling  meanwhile  in  his  pocket. 
"Where  the  deuce  is  that — where's  my  wife?" 

Bess  offered  to  fetch  her ;  went  to  the  White  Roe, 
found  the  door  fast;  bent  to  call  through  the  key- 
hole and  saw  that  the  key  was  in  the  lock. 

"Madam's  locked  her  door,"  says  she,  return- 
ing. 

"Demme!"  muttered  Ralph.  "That's  odd!  I 
could  ha'  sworn  I  had  the  key."  He  got  to  his  feet 
and  pulled  himself  together.  This  must  be  looked 
into.  He  perfectly  remembered  locking  Doll's  door 
before  he  went  to  sup  with  the  Spaniard.  Vaguely 
he  remembered  that  affable  stranger  had  armed  him 
up  the  stair.  What  followed  ? 

"Well,"  said  he,  ruminating.  "She  must  be 
asleep.  I  can  get  into  the  room  from  the  gallery." 

Dogged  by  the  innkeeper  and  the  intrigued  maid 
he  went  below  into  the  court,  and  up  the  outer  stair- 


i54  MY  LADY  APRIL 

case  to  the  gallery.     The  end  window  gaped  blackly. 

"This  should  be  the  room,"  he  said,  peering. 
"  'Tis  devilish  awkward.  My  shoulders — " 

Foster  touched  him.  "Let  me  climb  in,  sir.  I'm 
smaller  nor  you.  Madam  won't  hear  me,  an'  I'll  un- 
lock the  door.  Bess,  take  his  honor  by  way  o'  the 
Lion.  'Tis  empty  to-night,  an't  it?"  He  disap- 
peared, wriggling  through  the  aperture,  and  Carew, 
waiting  while  the  girl  unlocked  the  Lion,  fancied 
he  heard  some  vehicle  drive  off  along  the  road,  and 
hesitated,  vaguely  uneasy. 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  Bess,  plucking  at  his  sleeve. 

He  turned,  still  a  little  dazed,  unable  to  collect 
his  thoughts;  and  went  through  the  empty  bed- 
chamber to  the  landing,  to  find  Foster  in  the  door- 
way of  the  White  Roe. 

"My  lady  an't  here,  seemin'ly,"  said  he,  displac- 
ing a  bob  wig  to  scratch  his  pate. 

"What?"  cried  young  Carew,  breaking  past  him 
into  the  room.  "Not  here?" 

"De-camped!"  chuckled  Foster,  scenting  mys- 
tery. 

"Fled?"  shrieked  Bess,  all  of  a  flutter.  "Fled! 
Lawks,  where's  she  gone?"  She  ran  about  the 
room  searching  the  tumbled  bed,  the  empty 
closets,  commenting  aloud:  "Not  been  slep'  in, 
though  she  lay  down.  I'll  wager  she  ne'er  un- 
dressed, no,  not  she!  A  hairpin — powder — why, 
look,  she  eat  next  to  nothing." 

"Dear,  dear,  what  waste  o'  good  vittles,"  de- 
plored the  host,  examining  the  neglected  supper  tray. 


ALARUMS  155 

"The  pillow's  wet!"  cried  Bess.  "Lud,  what'd 
she  to  do,  weeping?"  She  glared  across  the  four- 
poster  at  young  Carew,  disconsolate  in  the  midst 
of  the  room.  "Feel  that!  She  must  ha'  sobbed 
for  hours!" 

The  indignant  girl  thrust  into  his  hands  the  pil- 
low, still  warm,  fragrant  with  lavender,  wet  with 
Dorothy's  tears. 

"Gad,"  said  young  Carew.  "What  a  brute  I've 
been!" 

A  lump  rose  in  his  throat.  So  she  had  lain  there 
weeping  while  he  drank  with  the  Spaniard.  He 
touched  the  damp  linen,  laid  the  pillow  on  the  bed 
and  went  out  with  never  a  word. 

Foster  and  the  chambermaid  gaped  at  one  an- 
other. 

"Where's  mossoo?"  said  the  girl  suddenly. 

"Which?  The  Spanish  lord?  He  ain't  no  mos- 
soo, Bess,  'tis  a  French  word,  for  sure.  He  be  set 
in  the  coffee-room,  a-drinkin'  that  wine  he  brought 
hisself,  as  if  my  best  Oporto  weren't  good  enough 
for  him.  Where  else  should  a  be?" 

"Go  see !"  cried  Bess.  "I'll  lay  he's  at  the  bottom 
o'  this,  the  black-a-vised  furriner!" 

Alarmed,  Foster  trotted  downstairs,  searched  the 
coffee-room,  the  tap,  the  kitchens;  hurried  out  into 
the  court.  "Tom?  Tom!  Where  be  that  whelp? 
Tom,  I  say!" 

A  snore  from  the  stables. 

"Thomas  Ostler!  Hi,  waken  up,  ye  lout! 
Where  be  the  furriner?" 


i56  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Tom  Ostler  woke  artistically,  yawned,  and  blinked 
up  at  his  master. 

"Where  be  the  Spanisher?"  reiterated  Foster. 

"Lor'  lumme,"  gasped  the  lad.     "What's  to  do?" 

"He  an't  in  the  house,"  bellowed  the  landlord. 
"Where  be  he?" 

"Good  lack,  master,  I  dunno.  I  an't  set  eyes 
on  un  since  he  come.  What's  he  stole?" 

"Stole?  Stole  yer  gran'mother!  He's  de- 
camped, seemin'ly,  an'  his  score  not  paid.  Dang 
me,  no  more's  my  lady's!"  Foster  whirled  about, 
counted  the  horses  in  the  stalls  and  thrust  his  head 
into  the  yard.  "Plague  take  it,  the  shay  be  gone!" 
he  cried. 

The  lad  retreated  hurriedly  beneath  Grey  Drake's 
manger.  "Lumme,  guv'nor,  'tan't  no  manner  o'  use 
a-kickin'  o'  me,"  he  urged.  "I  bin  asleep  this  hour 
an'  more.  'Ware  Drake's  heels,  sir!  He  an't  safe 
if  he's  scart!"  Grinning,  he  watched  Foster  scut- 
tle across  the  court  and  out  into  the  road.  "  'Cod/' 
muttered  Tom.  "Now  let  un  find  the  slipper!" 

But  young  Carew  had  already  found  it,  and  was 
standing  in  the  highway  turning  it  about  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  moon,  his  eyes  thick  with  tears. 

"What  now,  sir?"  panted  the  host,  coming  to  a 
halt  and  staring. 

"Her  shoe,"  says  poor  Ralph  with  a  gulp.  "She 
went  this  way,  landlord.  I  must  after  her.  She 
can't  have  gone  far,  lacking  a  shoe." 

"But  what  o'  my  bill?  I'm  like  to  be  ruinated, 
I  am!  The  Spanisher's  gone  wi'out — " 


ALARUMS  157 

"What?"  cried  young  Carew  and  sprang  at  the 
startled  host.  "For  God's  sake,  man,  speak!  Don 
Carlos?" 

"Leggo  my  windpipe,"  gasped  Foster,  stagger- 
ing. "How  can  I  speak  when  ye —  Don  Carlos 
an't  in  the  house,  an'  what's  more,  your  shay  be  gone, 
an'—" 

"A  horse,  then,  you  dotard !"  cried  Ralph.  "Why 
couldn't  you  tell  me  at  once?  A  horse!"  He 
darted  to  the  stables,  shouting,  and  Grey  Drake 
lashed  out  from  the  nearest  stall. 

"Mind,  sir!  Mind  his  heels!"  Tom  Ostler 
pushed  young  Carew  out  of  danger.  "Ye  startled 
him.  He's  as  nervous  as  a  kitten;  he'll  brain  any 
as  ventures  in,  sir.  Wait  a  bit.  Soho,  boy — soho, 
lad !  Gently  then." 

Grey  Drake  looked  sideways,  lowered  his  v/icked 
head  and  let  fly  again,  and  Ralph  turned  and  ran 
from  the  yard,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  con- 
scious only  that  Dolly  was  gone  from  him  out  into 
the  night  with  the  sinister  Spaniard. 

Was  she  afoot?  The  slipper  seemed  to  suggest 
it.  Was  she  driving?  The  absence  of  his  chaise 
was  significant.  Dulled  by  the  wine  he  had  drunk 
and  the  blow  he  had  received  his  brain  refused  to 
work.  He  had  no  plan,  no  definite  design.  He 
could  think  of  nothing  but  Dolly,  her  golden  hair, 
her  trust  in  him,  her  tear-soaked  pillow. 

Sobbing,  he  ran  on,  dazed,  crestfallen,  the  pink 
satin  slipper  in  his  pocket  bumping  against  his  thigh. 

Gad,  if  only  he  might  find  her  and  make  amends ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

EXCURSIONS 

MERODACH  drove  rapidly  until  the  road, 
climbing  through  a  pine  wood,  split  in 
two  and  wandered  away  across  a  waste 
of  heather-clad  turf.     Here  he  turned  aside  and,  dis- 
mounting, led  the  chaise  into  the  shadows  of  the 
trees  and  halted  it  back  to  the  road,  so  that  a  chance 
movement  of  the  horses  would  not  betray  their  hid- 
ing-place. 

He  put  his  head  in  at  the  open  window,  prepared 
for  tears,  hysterics,  frenzy :  a  gentle  breathing  came 
from  the  muffled  figure  on  the  floor :  cuddled  among 
the  rugs  Dorothy  slept  like  a  child  worn  out  with 
weeping;  her  hair  glimmered  in  the  darkness,  one 
pale  hand  pressed  the  rough  woolen  away  from 
her  cheek. 

The  gypsy  drew  back  a  pace  or  two,  hesitated, 
and  at  length  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  wood  and 
dropped  upon  the  dry  needles  in  the  shelter  of  a 
stunted  fir.  There  would  be  time  enough  for  dis- 
cussion. Let  the  child  have  her  sleep  out. 

He  lay  upon  his  face,  chin  propped  on  one  palm, 
listening,  watching,  alert  for  a  movement  on  the 
dim  road,  a  sound  from  the  waiting  chaise. 

158 


EXCURSIONS  159 

Nothing  stirred  for  half  an  hour;  then  from  a 
distance  came  the  thud  of  running  feet  drawing 
rapidly  nearer :  a  man  stumbled  through  the  chequer 
of  moonlight  and  shadow,  and  sobbing,  panting, 
was  gone. 

Merodach  stood  up  to  see  which  way  he  took, 
and  satisfied  upon  that  point,  returned  to  the  chaise 
and  opened  the  door. 

A  sleepy  murmur  reached  him.  "Ralph?  What 
was  it?  I  was  almost —  Oh!" 

"We  must  talk,  Miss  Forrest,"  said  Merodach. 
"Will  you  come  sit  in  the  wood,  or  shall  I  climb 
in?" 

"I'll  get  out.  Oh,  how  delicious  it  smells! 
You've  not  put  the  steps — " 

He  waited  for  no  steps  but  lifted  her  to  earth, 
reached  for  a  rug  and  led  the  way  to  a  moonlit 
patch  of  turf.  Here  he  tucked  her  up  securely,  and 
sitting  down  at  arm's  length  started  with  his  en- 
counter with  Celia  and  the  paper  dolls,  and  told  her 
everything  that  had  occurred. 

Silent,  wondering,  Dorothy  listened:  she  asked 
no  questions,  she  expressed  no  disbelief;  it  was  im- 
possible to  doubt  the  gypsy's  sober  truth. 

Then  at  his  desire  she  told  her  side  of  the  story; 
but  coming  to  their  arrival  at  the  Goat  and  Com- 
passes, broke  off  and  hid  her  face  in  trembling 
hands. 

"And  now?"  said  Merodach  gently,  his  eyes  on 
Jier  bent  head. 

She  looked  up.     "What  now?    It  is  for  you  to 


160  MY  LADY  APRIL 

say.  I  trust  you,  Merodach.  Ah,  dear  God — I 
trusted  him!" 

"Mr.  Carew  passed  us  in  search  of  you  half  an 
hour  ago.  Judging  from  his  pace  he  can't  last  long. 
We  shall  overtake  him  within  two  miles." 

She  sat  upright,  staring  through  the  green  gloom. 
"You  mean  to  overtake  him?  What  then?  I 
thought  you — you — " 

"I've  a  mind  to  discover  Mr.  Ralph's  intentions." 

"Intentions?     You  told  me  he — " 

"Ah,  but  he's  had  a  lesson  since  then!"  Mero- 
dach smiled  into  her  bewildered  eyes.  "He  was  sob- 
bing as  he  ran  up  the  road." 

"Poor  Ralph!"  said  she,  and  wrung  her  hands. 
"Poor  lad!  He  thinks  he's  lost  me." 

"You'd  forgive  him?  You'd  offer  him  another 
chance?"  exclaimed  Merodach. 

"Lud,  yes !  I  love  him."  And  truly  she  thought 
she  did. 

The  gypsy  fell  silent,  plucking  at  the  turf,  pon- 
dering woman's  amazing  capacity  for  forgiveness, 
heartsick  at  the  inevitable  result.  He  could  read 
young  Carew. 

Forgive  him,  and  the  mercurial  rascal  would  dry 
his  tears,  forget  all  his  good  resolutions  and  be- 
come more  selfish  and  domineering  than  before. 
Part  them,  and  Dorothy  would  nurse  her  broken 
heart,  would  remember  all  Ralph's  engaging  ways 
and  forget  all  his  shortcomings.  Nothing  remained 
but  propinquity — and  disillusion. 


EXCURSIONS  161 

He  sighed  and  got  to  his  feet. 

"You  have  a  plan?"  said  Dorothy,  casting  off  her 
rug. 

"Half  a  one.  Life's  but  an  unrehearsed  play, 
and  if  your  fellow-actor  gives  a  wrong  cue  you're 
out  unless  you're  quick  to  gag.  I  never  elaborate 
a  plot.  Set  your  scene  and  trust  to  luck!  'Tis 
the  only  way." 

"And  what  part  have  I?"  said  she,  laughing. 
He  lifted  her  back  into  the  chaise.  "For  the  present, 
child,  you're  merely  an  interested  spectator." 

She  protested  at  that,  but  he  shook  his  head,  smil- 
ing at  her  eagerness.  "How  can  I  tell  you  what 
will  happen  when  I  don't  know  myself?  Lie  hid, 
until  your  cue  comes.  I'll  knock  on  the  door  when 
you  may  appear." 

He  led  the  chaise  back  to  the  road,  mounted, 
and  pushed  on,  following  the  way  young  Carew  had 
taken;  until  a  couple  of  miles  farther  a  disconsolate 
figure  trudging  with  hands  in  breeches  pockets, 
hailed  Merodach  as  he  jogged  by. 

"Hi !"  shouted  young  Carew. 

"Hallo?"  returned  the  gypsy,  reining  in. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  we  are,  fellow?" 

"Shotover  Heath?"  suggested  Merodach  glibly. 
If  young  Carew  were  lost  one  name  was  as  good  as 
another. 

"How  far  is't  to  the  next  village?" 

Merodach  appeared  to  ponder.  "Best  part  o'  five 
mile,  sir,"  said  he  at  length. 


1 62  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Ralph  swore.     "Can  you  give  me  a  lift?" 

"Well,  ye  can  ride  on  the  perch  behind  if  ye 
please.  The  shay  be  occipied,  like." 

"Who's  within?" 

The  gypsy  lowered  his  voice.  "  'Tis  a  body,  sir," 
said  he  solemnly. 

Young  Carew  recoiled.     "W-what?" 

"A  body.  The  body  of  a  female,  sir.  Ye'll 
not  care  to  ride  inside,  I  know,  but  ye' re  welcome 
to  perch — " 

"Good  lord,  are  you  an  undertaker," 

"Hardly  that,  sir,"  deprecated  Merodach,  touch- 
ing his  cap.  "I  took  on  this  job  to  obleege  a  lady. 
Tell'ee  what,  sir,  ye  can  ride  my  horse  an'  I'll  make 
shift  on  t'other  un.  There's  no  manner  o'  haste." 

"But  there  is!     I'm  in  the  deuce  of  a  hurry!" 

"Ye  warn't  makin'  more'n  two  an'  a  half  mile 
an  hour  when  we  came  up,"  said  the  gypsy,  sliding 
to  earth.  "We'll  double  that,  an'  go  easy.  Gi' 
us  yer  foot,  master.  Up  ye  go!" 

Carew  found  himself  astride  the  near  horse  before 
he  could  expostulate. 

"Stick  yer  foot  on  the  pole,  sir.  Ye  an't  got 
no  leg-iron,  an'  these  two  hosses  be  that  lovin'  they 
fair  prop  theirsel's  up  agen  each  other." 

Merodach  pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes  and 
mounted  the  off  horse,  sitting  sideways,  his  shoul- 
der turned  to  young  Carew.  He  reached  for  the 
reins,  clucked  to  his  beasts  and  they  moved  off 
at  a  jog-trot. 


EXCURSIONS  163 

"Travelin*  late,  sir,"  began  Merodach  amiably. 
"  Tis  a  bit  risky,  like." 

"Why?"  asked  young  Carew. 

"Footpads,  sir.  Thick  as  rabbits  hereabout. 
Toby-men,  too.  One  stopped  a  coach  las'  week, 
very  gentleman-like,  an'  returned  all  the  passengers' 
coppers.  Come  up,  Dandy,  you  lazy  oaf!" 

"Then  I'm  lucky  to  have  fallen  in  with  you,"  said 
Ralph.  "You're  armed,  of  course?" 

"Well  as  to  that,  sir,  I  be  an'  I  bain't,  as 
you  might  say.  I've  pistols  in  they  holsters,  but 
dang  me  if  they'll  go  off.  What's  the  odds? 
There  be  nought  of  valoo  to  steal,  an'  if  we're 
stopped  they'll  let  us  pass,  seein'  we  carry  a 
body." 

"O  demmit,  I'd  forgot  the  corpse!"  muttered 
Carew  with  a  furtive  glance  over  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  ye  needn't  worrit,  sir,"  says  Merodach 
coolly.  "  'Twarn't  a  case  of  infection.  A  broken 
heart,  sir.  That's  it.  Just  a  broken  heart.  Plaguy 
sad,  sir.  Come  up,  Dapple!" 

"Did — did  she — drown  herself?"  stammered 
Ralph,  struck  with  sudden  compunction. 

"Lord  no,  sir!  Just  a  broken  heart.  Dozens 
on  'em  go  that  way.  They  doctors  like  to  put  long 
words  to  it,  but  ye  can  take  it  from  me  'tis  nought 
but  plain  broken  heart.  Lovesick,  sir.  Pined 
away.  That's  it.  Come  up,  Dapple!" 

Young  Carew  moved  uneasily  in  his  saddle  but 
said  nothing. 

Merodach,  sitting  slackly,  rolled  to  the  motion 


1 64  MY  LADY  APRIL 

of  his  horse  and  continued  to  moralize,  conscious 
of  his  passenger's  acute  discomfort. 

"Love's  a  queer  thing,  sir,  an't  it?  Nine  times 
out  o'  ten  'tis  all  misplaced.  The  lass  wastes  her- 
sel'  on  a  lad  as  don't  care  two  straws  for  her — or 
t'other  way  up.  An'  the  tenth  time  if  so  be  they're 
both  fond,  you  can  bet  your  boots  it'll  all  go  wrong. 
Summat  seems  to  have  a  spite  agen  lovers.  If 
they  don't  wed  they  pines  away,  an'  if  they  do  wed 
— well,  it  don't  seem  to  turn  out  all  they'd  hoped 
for,  like.  Nine  times  out  o'  ten  they  forget  all 
their  courtin'  days,  an'  fratch  like  cat  an'  dog,  an' 
the  tenth  time  you  can  bet  your  boots — " 

"O  damn  you,  hold  your  tongue !"  snarled  young 
Carew. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  returned  Merodach,  and  fell  to 
humming  a  mournful  ballad  of  a  maid  in  "Bedlam" 
wailing  her  banished  lover. 

They  plodded  on  a  while,  until  of  a  sudden  Carew 
destirred  himself. 

"Demmit,  what  a  fool  I  am!"  he  cried.  "Pull 
up!  She  can't  have  come  so  far — I've  missed  her!" 

"Anon,  sir?"  said  Merodach,  yawning. 

"Pull  up.     I  must  go  back.     "I've  missed  her — " 

"Mebbe  you  was  searchin'  for  some  one?"  sug- 
gested Merodach  brilliantly. 

"Yes.  A — in  fact — a  young  lady.  Pull  up,  you 
dolt,  and  let  me  dismount." 

"Was  it  by  any  chance  the  young  'ooman  as  van- 
ished from  the  Goat  an'  Compasses?" 


EXCURSIONS  165 

"Yes,  yes!"  cried  Ralph.  "How  d'ye  know? 
Have  ye  news  of  her?" 

"I  come  that  way  myself,"  pondered  Merodach. 
"Old  Ben  were  in  the  devil  of  a  fantigue,  losin' 
two  customers  an'  ne'er  a  sixpence  in  payment." 

"Two?  What  of  the  Spaniard?  I  thought  he'd 
run  off  with  my  chaise — I  thought — good  gad,  I 
don't  know  what  to  think — I  believe  I'm  going  mad 
— I  found  her  slipper — " 

"Spaniard,  sir?"  said  Merodach,  interrupting 
Carew's  incoherent  exclamations.  "Spaniard? 
Oh,  he  don't  come  into  the  tale  at  all.  Ye  see,  the 
young  couple  druv  up  as  it  might  be  my  lord  an' 
lady  journeyin'  home  from  Bath.  But  it  seems  they 
warn't  wed,  sir,  an'  the  young  man  got  a  bit  hasty, 
as  young  men  will,  an'  the  young  'ooman  smelt  a 
rat,  d'ye  see,  an'  bolted.  Small  blame  to  her,  poor 
thing.  Ben's  a  good  fellow  in  his  way.  Soft  as 
butter  where  a  petticoat's  concerned.  Swears  he'll 
horsewhip  the  young  rake-hell  as  caused  all  the  up- 
set—  O  lumme,  sir!  You'll  be  him!" 

"Horsewhip?"  shouted  Carew,  beside  himself  with 
anger  and  impatience.  "What  the  hell  are  you  driv- 
ing at?" 

"Driving,  sir?  We  be  bound  for  Nether  Wallop, 
to  be  sure.  Come  up,  Dapple!  Ah,  sir.  You  do 
oathe  like  a  guardsman.  A  fair  eddication  to 
hearken  to  you,  sir,  that  it  be!  Most  instructive. 
Now  what  I  says  is,  a  new  curse  or  two  allus  comes 
in  handy —  Oh,  no  offense,  yer  honor,  no  offense !" 


166  MY  LADY  APRIL 

He  listened  critically  until  Carew's  breath  gave  out, 
and  then: 

"So  old  Ben  were  wrong  for  once,"  he  pondered, 
and  continued  with  a  quick  glance  at  Ralph's  humped 
shoulders,  "Old  Ben  can't  abide  to  be  nay-said. 
Swore  you  was  a-wrongin'  of  the  young  'ooman. 
Called  you  every  bad  name  under  the  sun,  sir.  Gay 
deceiver,  ah,  an'  worse  nor  that!  Fair  laid  his 
tongue  to  it,  he  did.  An'  here  ye  be  a-huntin'  for 
the  poor  lass,  that  put  about!  Come  up,  Dandy!" 

The  clop-clop  of  the  horses'  feet  punctuated  a 
strained  silence. 

"The  question  is,"  said  Ralph  at  last,  "did  Miss 
Forrest — is  she — afoot  or  driving?" 

"Ah!"  returned  Merodach  profoundly.  "That's 
the  question.  Was  it  to  be  Gretna  Green,  sir?" 

"No,  we  were  for  London." 

"Anon,  sir?"  queried  Merodach,  wondering  if 
Dorothy  could  hear. 

"London !"  shouted  Ralph. 

"Ah.  A  powerful  wicked  place,  they  tell  me,  but 
more  convenient  nor  Gretna,  by  a  mile  or  two.  An' 
if  so  be  as  ye  come  across  the  young  lady,  sir,  I'll 
be  proud  to  drive  ye  to  church,  once  I've  disposed  of 
the  body." 

"There'll  be  time  enough  to  talk  of  weddings 
when  I've  found  her,"  said  Carew  sulkily.  "Pull 
up,  I  tell  you.  I  must  go  back." 

Merodach  drew  rein  at  the  crest  of  a  little  hill 
where  a  flood  of  pale  light  shone  through  a  gap 


EXCURSIONS  167 

in  the  trees  that  bordered  the  road.  The  moon  was 
at  the  full:  the  horses'  breath  swirled  past  them  in 
misty  wreaths :  from  a  distant  village  came  the  slow 
tolling  of  a  bell. 

"Eleven,"  said  Merodach,  glancing  at  the  sky. 
"Whoa,  lad!"  He  dismounted,  passed  the  chaise 
door,  slapped  it  with  the  flat  of  his  hand  and  went 
round  to  young  Carew,  who  with  his  right  leg  across 
the  saddle-bow  was  rubbing  cramped  muscles  into 
use. 

For  the  first  time  the  two  men  were  face  to  face. 
Merodach  laughed,  lifted  his  head,  took  off  his  cap. 

"So  we  meet  again,  Mr.  Carew !" 

Ralph  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone.  "Gad!"  he 
said  at  length.  "  'Twas  you !  I  fancied  I  knew 
your  voice,  but — what  the  devil  brings  you  here?" 

"Business,"  returned  Merodach  airily.  "I've  a 
living  to  get,  one  way  or  t'other." 

"Pho !     Carting  dead  bodies !"  sneered  Carew. 

Merodach  shrugged. 

"But  you  came  past  the  inn?  You've  news  of 
her?" 

"Of  Miss  Forrest?  Maybe.  I'll  tell  you  noth- 
ing until  I  know  your  intentions." 

"Gad's  life,  what's  the  girl  to  you?" 

"A  woman  to  be  protected,"  said  Merodach 
grimly. 

Young  Carew  slithered  from  his  saddle,  settled 
his  cravat  and  shook  his  coat  skirts  into  place. 
"Now,"  said  he.  "You'll  tell  me  where  she  is." 


i68  MY  LADY  APRIL 

He  set  his  jaw  obstinately.  The  night  air  and  his 
unwonted  exertions  had  sobered  him  completely. 
Here  was  no  blubbering  boy,  disappointed  in  his 
love-chase,  but  a  man  of  affairs,  arrogant,  very  cer- 
tain of  himself. 

"You  intend  to  wed  her,  sir?"  insisted  Mero- 
dach. 

"  Tis  no  business  of  yours  what  I  intend.  She's 
mine.  I  took  her  out  of  the  Bradley  house  while 
you  and  Cavanagh  sat  biting  your  nails  and  won- 
dering how  to  do  it !  I — " 

"You  promised  to  carry  her  to  Winterbourne." 

"Well?" 

"Yet  this  very  night  you  boasted  that  you  were 
bound  for  London — you  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  mar- 
riage— you  had  the  key  of  her  door !" 

Young  Carew  sprang  at  the  gypsy,  but  Merodach 
caught  him  by  the  shoulders,  shook  him  to  and  fro 
and  flung  him  off. 

"Gad!"  panted  Ralph.  "Were  you  a  gentleman 
I'd  kill  you!" 

Merodach  laughed.  "You  have  my  permission  to 
try,  your  sword  against  my  bare  fists.  You  young 
whelp!  Come,  take  your  whipping!" 

Carew  swore,  reached  for  his  sword,  discovered 
an  empty  slit  in  his  coat  skirts  and  remembered 
that  before  sitting  down  to  supper  he  had  hung 
the  weapon  upon  the  back  of  his  chair.  Impotent, 
fuming,  he  stood  watching  the  gypsy  rolling  back 
his  cuffs. 


EXCURSIONS  169 

"You  cad!"  said  he  at  length.  "You  knew  I 
was  unarmed." 

"Then  we  fight  equally,"  smiled  Merodach,  ad- 
vancing. 

But  this  was  more  than  Miss  Forrest  could  sup- 
port in  silence. 

"You  are  not  to  fight!"  she  cried,  suddenly  ap- 
pearing at  the  chaise  window.  "I  forbid  it!" 

"Doll?"   gasped   Carew,   and  made  toward  her. 

She  put  out  an  arresting  hand.  "Keep  your  dis- 
tance, sir.  I  think  you  owe  me  an  apology." 

"Gad,  'tis  you  are  in  the  wrong!"  cried  Ralph 
hotly.  "You  elope  with  me  one  night,  and  the  next 
you  run  off  with  a — " 

Merodach  slapped  him  across  the  mouth.  "Hold 
your  foul  tongue,  Carew !"  said  he. 

A  sudden  mad  jealousy  seized  the  lad.  He  had 
rescued  Dolly  from  the  Bradley  house,  she  was  his. 
What  right  had  this  vagabond  to  interfere?  He 
struck  out  rather  wildly,  and  as  the  gypsy  side- 
stepped he  overreached  himself  and  stumbled  for- 
ward. 

Merodach  gripped -him,  lifted  him,  and  tossed  him 
into  the  tangled  hedgerow. 

From  her  post  of  vantage  at  the  chaise  window 
Dorothy  watched  the  whole  undignified  fracas,  and 
frowned  to  hide  an  insurgent  smile  as  Ralph  extri- 
cated himself  from  a  blackthorn  bush.  No  one  was 
hurt,  and  it  was  vastly  romantic  to  be  fought  over, 
even  if  one  champion  were  no  more  than  a  gypsy. 


1 70  MY  LADY  APRIL 

She  watched,  bright-eyed,  breathing  rapidly,  eager  to 
lose  no  fleeting  thrill  of  emotion. 

Back  to  the  chaise,  Merodach  stood  guard  over 
her.  Shin  deep  in  the  dry  ditch  young  Carew  es- 
caped from  the  embraces  of  a  too  friendly  bramble; 
and  none  noticed  a  couple  of  masked  men  who  had 
crept  upon  them  from  the  opposite  hedge. 

A  curt  "Stand  and  deliver!"  startled  all  three. 

Merodach,  looking  down  the  black  barrel  of  a  pis- 
tol, threw  up  his  hands.  Dorothy  squealed.  Ralph, 
rooted  in  his  ditch,  gave  a  shout  of  triumph. 

"Rescued!"  he  bawled.  "Good  lads!  A  guinea 
each  if  you  put  the  fellow  out  o'  the  way.  We've 
been  held  up  by  him — you  saw  him  throw  me  in  the 
hedge,  I—" 

"O  fie !"  cried  Dorothy.  "Shame  on  you,  Ralph, 
shame!"  She  wrenched  open  the  door  and  leaped 
to  the  ground,  pressing  Merodach  back  against  the 
chaise;  her  body,  her  outstretched  arms  shielding 
him.  For  an  instant  her  shoulders  were  against 
his  breast,  her  hair  brushed  his  lips.  Instinctively 
Merodach  shrank  away;  put  her  from  him; 
his  heart  pounding,  his  throat  dry,  every  pulse 
in  his  body  leaping  with  a  strange  and  fearful 
exultation. 

"Child,"  he  whispered,  "let  be.     I'm  safe  enough." 

"Little  fool!"  muttered  young  Carew.  "You've 
ruined  our  one  chance." 

The  two  footpads  stood  bewildered,  staring  from 
the  dishevelled  gallant  to  the  supposed  postilion  and 
the  panting,  terror-stricken  lady. 


EXCURSIONS  171 

"What's  to  do?"  said  one,  approaching  the  fel- 
low who  still  covered  Merodach  with  his  pistol. 
"What  d'ye  make  o'  this,  Greg?" 

"Make?  Od  rot  ye  for  a  brainless  swab!  Leave 
'em  to  fight  it  out  an'  get  aboard.  The  nags  are 
fresh.  We'll  show  the  preventives  a  clean  pair  o' 
heels  an'  make  Southhampton  'fore  mornin'.  Aloft 
wi'  ye,  lubber,  an'  I'll  in  the  cuddy!" 

The  one  clambered  awkwardly  to  saddle,  the  other 
leaped  into  the  chaise,  stumbled  on  the  heap  of  rugs 
and  fell  cursing.  His  pistol  exploded  harmlessly. 
Merodach  held  him  down  with  one  hand  while  with 
the  other  he  dragged  Dorothy's  valise  from  the 
seat  and  flung  a  wrap  after  it.  Then  with  a  yell 
he  slapped  the  astonished  Dapple  on  the  flank  and 
sprang  backward  as  the  chaise  lurched  away:  the 
lumbering  vehicle  rounded  a  bend  in  the  road  and 
disappeared,  one  door  banging,  the  footpad  bumping 
in  his  saddle. 

Aghast  at  this  unexpected  turn  of  events,  young 
Carew  stood  staring,  anger  swamped  for  the  mo- 
ment in  amazement. 

"What  the  deuce  d'ye  mean  by  that?"  he  cried. 
"You've  let  'em  go !'  " 

Merodach  picked  up  the  valise,  swung  it  and  threw 
it  over  the  hedge.  The  rug  went  after  it.  Then 
climbing  up  the  bank  he  found  a  gap  between  two 
hazel  stubs  and  called  to  Dorothy  to  follow. 

"What  in  the  devil's  name  are  ye  at?"  demanded 
Ralph  irritably. 

"Those  men  are  flying  from  justice,"  Merodach 


172  MY  LADY  APRIL 

told  him.  "I've  no  wish  to  be  caught  by  their 
pursuers.  They're  smugglers,  likely.  We'll  get  out 
o'  the  road.  Come!"  He  leaned  down  from  the 
hedge,  caught  the  girl's  outstretched  hands  and  pulled 
her  after  him  through  the  opening.  A  rip  of  cash- 
mere told  of  a  torn  skirt.  Dorothy  never  heeded. 
Breathless  with  excitement  and  anticipation  she 
clung  to  Merodach's  hand.  This  was  adventure  in- 
deed! 

Grumbling,  Ralph  followed,  and  found  himself  in 
a  ploughed  field  veiled  with  the  fine,  blue-green 
growth  of  young  wheat.  Shouldering  the  bag  the 
gypsy  turned  along  the  hedge,  reached  the  corner 
and  followed  a  little  track  that  ran  beside  the  edge 
of  the  furrows.  Dorothy  stumbled  after  him. 
Young  Carew,  told  off  to  carry  the  rug,  floundered 
behind. 

In  silence  they  traversed  the  field,  crossed  a  pas- 
ture, and  came  through  a  ragged  coppice  to  common 
land  dotted  with  yew  and  juniper,  gray  beneath 
the  moon. 

Merodach  paused  for  an  instant  to  look  about,  and 
then  set  out  again,  halting  at  last  in  a  little  hollow 
sheltered  by  a  ring  of  trees.  Here  he  dropped  his 
burden,  took  the  rug  from  young  Carew,  who  was 
preparing  to  use  it  himself,  and  spreading  it,  mo- 
tioned to  Dorothy  that  she  should  rest.  She  sank 
down  readily  enough,  her  back  against  the  bag,  her 
fingers  linked  about  her  knees,  watching  eagerly  as 
Merodach  gathered  an  armful  of  dry  twigs  and  small 
sticks  and  nicked  away  with  flint  and  steel. 


EXCURSIONS  173 

The  glowing  sulphur  match  lit  up  his  brown  face, 
clean-cut,  serene,  quietly  amused.  He  knelt  over 
the  fire  until  it  was  burning  merrily,  and  then,  sit- 
ting back  on  his  heels,  unbuckled  Dorothy's  shoes 
and  held  them  to  dry. 

"Mud's  colder  than  water,"  said  he  coolly,  al- 
though the  touch  of  her  silken  ankles  had  set  his 
heart  racing  again. 

"Demmed  officious  in  you,"  objected  young  Ca- 
rew. 

"O  Ralph!"  cried  Dorothy.  "How  can  you  be 
so — my  feet  might  have  gone  cold  for  all  you 
cared!" 

"Mine  are  like  ice!"  retorted  Ralph  petulantly. 

"Then  for  heaven's  sake  come  dry  them  and  be 
civil !" 

"Civil ?  Gad's  life !  Civil !  'Tis  all  I  can  do  to 
command  myself!"  burst  out  young  Carew.  "Here 
are  we,  miles  from  anywhere,  without  means  of 
conveyance,  without  food,  without  shelter — all 
through  this  cursed  interfering  gypsy !  And  you  ask 
me  to  be  civil !  'Tis  more  than  can  be  expected — " 

"From  you,"  said  Dorothy. 

"From  any!"  he  cried.  "You're  a  sweet  butter- 
tongued  miss,  an't  ye?" 

Dorothy  bit  her  lip ;  choked  back  her  rising  tears ; 
turned  to  the  fire  and  Merodach.  He  looked  up  and 
held  her  glance  and  a  sense  of  shame,  of  gratitude, 
of  peace  and  utter  security  stole  over  her  with  the 
gaze  of  his  steady  eyes. 

Young  Carew  squatted  beside  the  fire,  took  off  his 


*74  MY  LADY  APRIL 

shoes,  propped  them  to  dry  and  let  his  damp  stock- 
ings steam.  It  was  monstrous  uncomfortable,  but 
he  would  have  died  sooner  than  go  barefoot  before 
a  lady.  A  three-cornered  tear  in  one  revealed  the 
white  skin  beneath.  He  noticed  it  and  swore,  and 
taking  a  kerchief  from  his  pocket  solicitously 
dabbed  at  a  small  red  scratch. 

None  offered  sympathy,  and  the  silence  remained 
unbroken  save  for  the  crackle  of  the  fire. 

Warmed,  rested,  intrigued  by  her  extraordinary 
predicament,  Dorothy  watched  Merodach,  cross- 
legged  beside  the  fire ;  and  something  in  his  pose  re- 
minded her  of  that  night  of  terror  in  the  gaming 
house  at  Bath  when  he  had  made  a  fire  and  sat  be- 
side it,  talking  to  give  her  time  to  recover  her  com- 
posure. 

He  had  taken  command  of  that  situation  with  an 
ease  that  was  comforting:  she  looked  to  him  now 
for  guidance,  confident  that  all  was  well. 

They  smiled  at  each  other  across  the  leaping 
flames,  and  somehow  it  suddenly  seemed  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  to  be  there  with  Mero- 
dach, shut  away  from  the  blue  darkness  by  that 
ring  of  orange  light. 

"Zounds,  what  a  night!"  groaned  Carew,  squeez- 
ing a  microscopic  splinter  from  one  finger. 

Dorothy  tilted  back  her  head  to  see  the  stars. 
"Heavenly!"  she  breathed,  adrift  in  the  pale  glory 
of  the  Milky  Way. 

"We're  in  luck,"  added  Merodach.  "It  might 
have  rained." 


EXCURSIONS  175 

"It  may  yet,"  grunted  Carew.  "Let's  push  on 
for  shelter." 

"There's  no  village  within  miles,"  Merodach  told 
him.  "We  can  as  well  spend  the  rest  o'  the  night 
here  as  anywhere.  Miss  Forrest's  in  no  case  for 
walking  far." 

"Gad,  your  shoes !"  cried  Ralph,  staring.  "How's 
this?  You  lost  one,  and  here  you  are  with  two!" 
He  dragged  the  pink  slipper  from  his  pocket  and 
slammed  it  on  the  ground  vehemently.  "I  demand 
an  explanation,  miss !  Let's  get  to  the  bottom  o' 
this  coil  once  and  for  all." 

Dorothy  caught  Merodach's  eye.  "I  think,  Mr. 
Carew,  'tis  you  who  should  be  offering  apologies, 
said  she,  with  pretty  dignity.  "'Tis  you  who 
should  be  humbly  craving  pardon.  O  lud,  wait — 
you  unmannerly  boy — wait  and  let  me  speak! 
I  consent  to — to  allow  you  to  rescue  me,  be- 
lieving that  you  meant  to  take  me  down  to  Winter- 
bourne,  trusting  in  your  integrity,  your  honor. 
It  seems  I  was  deceived.  You  were  for  London. 
You  had  no  intention  of  making  me — your  wife — " 
Her  voice  broke.  "O  Ralph,  'twas  shameless  in 
you — 'twas  cruel!  Had  I  deserved  that?" 

"Gad's  life,  Doll,  you're  glib!  Who  told  ye  that 
tale?"  began  Carew,  staring  uneasily. 

"Merodach!"  sobbed  Dolly,  abandoning  herself 
to  sudden  grief. 

"And  you  take  his  word  for  it  before  mine? 
What  d'ye  know  of  him?  You've  seen  him  but 
once — " 


176  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"I  know  him  better  than  I  do  you,"  cried  the 
girl.  "Merodach's  helped  me  before.  I  eloped  with 
you  the  second  day  of  our  acquaintance!" 

"What  d'ye  know  of  him?"  repeated  Ralph,  ig- 
noring her  interuption.  "He's  a  common  bully — 
a  prize  fighter.  What's  he  told  you  about  me  ?  He 
knows  nothing.  For  anything  you  can  tell  he's  de- 
ceiving you.  To-morrow  I'll — " 

"Ah,  senorl"  drawled  Merodach,  rolling  big  eyes. 
"Manana,  manana!  This  to-morrow  of  yours  lasts 
for  ever !" 

An  oath  died  upon  Ralph's  lips:  he  sat  rigid, 
frozen  with  surprise,  his  comely  young  face  a 
ghastly  mask  in  the  yellow  light  of  the  fire. 
"You!"  he  whispered.  "God!"  Dazed,  he  stag- 
gered to  his  feet,  glared  from  one  to  the  other, 
mouthed  something  incoherent  and  plunged  away 
into  the  thick  darkness  of  the  encircling  trees. 

"Oh!"  moaned  Dorothy.  "He's  gone!" 

"Faith,"  said  Merodach,  "he'll  not  go  far,  child. 
See,  he's  forgot  his  shoes."  He  turned  round  to 
face  her,  propped  himself  on  one  elbow  and  poked 
the  fire  with  a  forked  stick.  "Let  him  alone  a  while 
to  nurse  his  wounded  vanity.  O  lud,  d'ye  think  he's 
heart-broke?  Not  he!"  He  laughed  and  stretched 
one  hand  to  pat  her  knee.  "Let  him  alone,  child. 
The  poor  fellow's  vastly  mortified  to  find  he's  been 
triciked.  'Tis  no  more  than  that.  He'll  appear 
again  with  the  dawn,  never  fear." 

Strangely  comforted  by  the  touch  of  that  brown 
hand,  Dorothy  mopped  her  eyes,  discovered  her  ker- 


EXCURSIONS  177 

chief  too  damp  to  be  of  further  service,  and  naively 
spread  it  to  dry. 

"W-what  are  we  going  to  do?"  said  she. 

"Do?     Make   for   Winterbourne." 

"Walk?" 

He  nodded.  "How  else?  What  money  have 
you?" 

She  emptied  her  purse  into  her  lap.  "Four  shil- 
lings and  a  crooked  sixpence." 

"And  Mr.  Carew?" 

"I  doubt  he's  left  the  most  of  his  valuables  in  his 
baggage  at  the  inn.  And  you?" 

Merodach  grinned  and  threw  out  an  expressive 
hand.  "So!  We  walk.  You  go  with  me,  for 
safety.  I  go  with  you,  as  duenna.  Mr.  Carew  ac- 
companies us  because  he'll  be  too  monstrous  jealous 
to  lose  sight  of  you.  At  dawn  we  breakfast.  You'll 
pack  your  clothing  into  three  bundles  for  easier 
carriage.  I  make  two  dozen  clothes  pegs — and  we 
set  out." 

He  prayed  that  she  would  not  inquire  why  they 
did  not  go  straight  back  to  the  Goat  and  Compasses 
to  recover  Ralph's  luggage  and  hire  another  vehicle. 
He  required  more  time,  more  intimacy  than  ordi- 
nary circumstance  would  allow.  Were  he  acting  as 
postilion  with  Ralph  and  Dorothy  tete-a-tete  within 
the  chaise,  he  could  exercise  no  influence  upon 
events,  and  young  Carew  would  reinstate  himself 
with  nothing  more  palpable  than  promises.  Mero- 
dach intended  to  elicit  deeds.  Hence  the  reference 
to  clothes  pegs. 


i78  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Dorothy  followed  this  red  herring.  "Clothes 
pegs?"  echoed  she,  mystified. 

"Why  not?  'Tis  a  means  of  livelihood  not  to  be 
despised."  He  drew  a  clasp  knife  and  demonstrated 
with  a  piece  of  stick.  "  "Tisn't  the  right  wood,  but 
'twill  serve  to  show  you." 

She  watched,  fascinated  with  the  play  of  his  deft 
hands,  until  the  finished  peg  lay  in  her  lap. 

"I've  enough  wire  for  to-day,"  said  he,  repocket- 
ing  the  coil.  "We  can  buy  more,  to-morrow. 
You're  sleepy,  child.  Lie  here,  back  to  the  blaze." 
'He  made  a  pillow  of  her  valise,  tucked  the  rug 
about  her  and  piling  on  more  wood,  stretched  him- 
self on  the  farther  side  of  the  fire,  listening  for  any 
sound  from  the  thicket  into  which  young  Carew  had 
disappeared. 

But  nothing  stirred  in  the  shadows. 

Ralph  had  flung  himself  down  just  out  of  ear- 
shot, and  lay  motionless,  gripping  the  earth  with 
fingers  that  for  a  time  were  unconscious  of  what 
they  held.  Then,  when  the  first  paroxysm  of  rage 
and  dismay  had  passed,  he  became  aware  that  twigs 
and  small  stones  were  crushed  into  his  palms.  He 
rolled  over,  shook  his  hands  free  of  rubbish,  and 
sitting  propped  against  a  trunk,  clasped  his  ankles 
and  ruminated  sulkily,  cursing  his  stupidity. 

If  he  had  kept  sober,  none  of  these  unpleasant- 
nessess  had  occurred.  It  was  incredible  that  mere 
Oporto  could  have  so  bowled  him  over :  Merodach 
must  have  put  brandy  in  it,  the  swine.  Who  would 
have  dreamed  that  he — that  the  Spaniard — medi- 


EXCURSIONS  179 

tation  merged  into  malediction.  It  was  insufferable 
that  a  gentleman  could  not  amuse  himself  without 
the  intervention  of  a  demmed  pugilist.  And  Dolly? 
Gad,  what  did  %  she  expect,  coming  from  such  a 
place  as  Mother  Bradley's?  Pshaw!  Oh,  damn 
the  women ! 

Feeling  himself  to  have  been  abominably  used,  he 
slid  into  an  easier  posture,  yawned,  cuddled  down 
among  the  packed  dead  leaves  and  dozed,  rousing 
some  hours  later,  racked  with  cramps  and  in  the 
very  devil  of  a  temper. 

Was  ever  heir  to  a  baronetcy  in  such  monstrous 
plight?  Hatless,  shoeless,  supperless — no,  by  gad, 
he'd  supped — ahem !  Well,  breakfastless,  then. 
'Twas  not  to  be  meekly  borne. 

He  got  cautiously  to  his  feet,  tripped  over  some 
obstruction  and  all  but  fell;  then,  stooping  to  see 
what  had  caught  his  toe,  discovered  a  three-foot 
stick,  heavy,  knotted,  damp  but  sound.  For  an 
instant  he  stood  poising  it  in  his  hand,  wavered, 
and  crept  stealthily  from  the  shelter  of  the  trees, 
treading  softly  in  his  stocking-feet  across  the  little 
glade  to  the  fire. 

Dorothy,  curled  up  like  a  sleepy  kitten,  lay  hud- 
dled in  the  rug.  Merodach  sprawled  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fire,  and  between  them  a  heap  of  embers 
still  glowed,  surrounded  by  a  ring  of  flaky  white 
woodash. 

Still  smarting  under  a  sense  of  unmerited  per- 
secution, blinded  with  anger,  childishly  spiteful, 
young  Carew  paused  above  the  motionless  figure  of 


i8o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

the  gypsy,  heaved  up  his  club  and  swung  it  down- 
ward with  all  his  force.  But  even  as  it  fell  Mero- 
dach  flung  himself  to  one  side,  grabbed  his  assail- 
ant's ankles  and  brought  him  toppling  to  earth. 

The  thud  awoke  Dorothy,  who  sat  up  blinking, 
peering  through  the  dim  light  of  earliest  dawn,  her 
eyes  still  heavy  with  sleep,  her  hands  pushing  back 
strands  of  her  loosened  hair.  She  discovered  young 
Carew  on  his  knees  nursing  a  strained  wrist,  and 
Merodach  breathing  a  little  unevenly,  tending  the 
scattered  fire. 

"W-what  was  it  ?"  she  faltered,  frightened  at  their 
silence. 

"Nothing,"  returned  Merodach.  "Mr.  Carew 
brought  in  a  log  for  the  fire,  and — fell  over  me. 
There's  no  harm  done."  He  blew  the  embers  into 
a  blaze,  arranged  some  dry  sticks  across  them,  os- 
tentatiously laid  Ralph's  cudgel  on  the  top,  and 
glancing  at  the  sky,  suggested  that  it  was  almost 
time  for  breakfast. 

Carew  took  no  sort  of  notice.  Dorothy  looked 
up,  expectant. 

"Wait  here  for  me,"  Merodach  said  to  her,  and 
went  off  whistling. 

Carew  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  bound  it 
round  his  wrist,  endeavoring  with  his  teeth  and  his 
free  hand  to  tie  the  ends. 

"Oh,  let  me!"  said  the  girl  and  knelt  beside  him, 
knotting  the  improvised  bandage  into  place.  "Was 
it  burned,  Ralph?  I've  an  ointment — '* 

"No.     I  twisted  it  when  I  fell." 


EXCURSIONS  181 

She  remained  looking  at  him ;  slid  her  arms  about 
his  neck;  laid  a  smooth,  cool  cheek  against  his. 
"Dear  Ralph,"  she  whispered.  "Dear  lad — comer 
kiss  and  make  friends!" 

He  caught  at  her,  kissed  her,  buried  his  face 
against  her  shoulder.  "O  Doll,"  he  said.  "Doll, 
can  you  forgive  me?" 

She  smiled,  touching  his  cropped  hair  "Dear 
heart,  how  little  you  know  of  women !  Come,  your 
face  is  all  smeared  with — tears — and  woodash.  Let 
me  wipe  it.  There !  I  vow  I  should  have  been  your 
mother,  Ralph — now,  let  me  go — Merodach — " 

"Damn  Merodach !"  cried  young  Carew  savagely. 
"Don't  talk  to  me  of  him.  Doll,  come  with  me — 
come  away  now,  while  he's  gone.  We'll  go  back 
to  the  inn  and  hire  another  chaise  and  post  to  Win- 
terbourne.  I  swear  it !  'Pon  honor,  I'll  marry  you, 
Doll,  spite  of  everything!  I'll — " 

The  chill  of  her  eyes,  her  lips'  imperious  curve 
halted  him  suddenly.  He  stammered,  floundering. 
"Gad,  I — I  didn't  mean  that!  I — I'm  half  crazed, 
Doll.  Think  what  I've  suffered  in  the  last  few 
hours!  I  swear  I — " 

"You  think  too  much  of  your  own  feelings,  and 
too  little  of  mine,"  said  the  girl,  drawing  away  from 
him.  "Wait!  I've  forgiven  you  once.  It  remains 
for  you  to  prove  my  forgiveness  merited.  We  go 
to  Winterbourne,  but  with  Merodach.  'Tis  all  ar- 
ranged— " 

"O  Gad!"  sneered  young  Carew,  nettled  that  he 
had  not  been  consulted.  "  'Tis  the  first  time  ever 


182  MY  LADY  APRIL 

I  heard  of  a  girl  eloping  with  two  men  at  once!" 
She  stared  and  turned  her  back  at  him,  fighting 

down  her  anger,  her  indignation,  her  tears. 

"You  are  insolent,   sir!"   said  she.     "Tend  the 

fire  while  I  go  wash  my  hands.     I  can  hear  a  brook, 

somewhere." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

YOUNG  CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE 

GRAY-GREEN,  blue,  amethyst,  and  purple, 
the  hills  lay  half  revealed  in  the  dawn; 
ridge  after  ridge  clothed  with  silent  trees 
stretched  away  to  the  faint  horizon,  a  land  of  dream 
melting  into  eternity. 

Primroses  starred  the  turf ;  below  the  sapling  oaks 
wild  hyacinths  spread  their  misty  veil;  and  wind- 
flowers,  pink  and  white,  hid  among  their  leaves  like 
shy  children  behind  spread  fingers. 

Dorothy  climbed  out  of  the  hollow  and  stood  for 
a  long  moment  sticken  dumb  with  the  beauty  of 
the  world.  Gorse  blazed  upon  the  open  hillsides, 
wind-racked  blackthorn  bushes  showered  their  snow 
upon  the  brilliant  turf.  It  was  a  morning  of  blue 
and  gold :  of  hope,  of  glad  certainty  that  all  was 
well. 

She  went  downhill  to  a  chalk  stream  fringed  with 
springing  rushes,  and  kneeling,  bathed  her  hands 
and  face;  her  apron  did  duty  as  a  towel,  and  re- 
freshed, she  went  back  to  the  copse  to  unpack  her 
comb  and  a  clean  kerchief  for  her  neck.  Young 
Carew  was  not  to  be  seen,  and  thankful  for  a  mo- 
ment's privacy  she  opened  her  valise  and  contrived 
to  do  up  her  hair  and  mend  a  rent  in  her  skirt. 

183 


1 84  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Then,  remembering  Merodach's  instructions  she 
sorted  her  clothing  into  three  piles :  one  of  dainty 
things  that  she  would  not  need  upon  the  journey; 
one  for  present  use;  one  for  emergency.  Choos- 
ing a  stout  petticoat  and  a  shawl,  she  made  two 
bundles,  pinned  and  knotted  them  securely  and 
packed  the  remainder  into  her  bag,  singing  happily 
to  herself,  falling  silent  to  listen  to  the  ecstatic 
birds;  wondering  where  Ralph  was  gone  and  plain- 
tively wishing  that  he  were  a  little  more  of  a  man 
and  less  of  a  spoilt  and  rather  foolish  boy. 

Perhaps  when  they  were  wed  he  would  improve. 

Having  finished  her  preparations  she  sat  beside 
the  fire,  adding  a  stick  here  and  there,  dropping 
dead  fir  cones  into  the  red  heart  of  the  blaze  and 
sniffing  the  sweet-scented  smoke,  conscious  that  she 
was  hungry.  It  was  an  experience;  never  before 
had  she  gone  without  a  meal,  and  last  night  she  had 
eaten  nothing  but  a  little  bread  and  wine. 

As  Merodach  returned  whistling  through  the 
bushes  she  rose  and  ran  to  him,  childishly  eager 
to  see  what  he  had  brought.  He  untied  his  blue 
kerchief  and  spread  it  out,  laughing  at  her  curiosity, 
refusing  to  explain  how  he  came  by  the  batchcake, 
the  butter  in  a  cracked  cup,  six  warm  eggs,  and 
a  bottle  of  milk. 

"You've  forgot  the  salt,"  she  teased  him. 

He  grinned  and  pulled  a  screw  of  paper  from  one 
pocket.  "We'll  roast  the  eggs,"  said  he,  raking  at 
the  fire.  "Later  on  I'll  get  a  frying  pan.  Where's 
Mr.  Carew?" 


CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE     185 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Dolly  wistfully.  "I  went 
down  to  the  brook  and  when  I  came  back  he  was 
gone."  She  wavered  for  an  instant  and  met  his  eyes. 
"He  asked  me  to  go  back  with  him  to  the  inn  and 
hire  another  chaise  and  post  to  Winterbourne.  You 
never  thought  of  that,  did  you?" 

"And  you  refused?"  The  gypsy  looked  at  her 
curiously. 

"Of  course!  I  told  him  'twas  arranged  that  we 
went  with  you,  and — he  was  angry." 

Merodach  motioned  her  to  follow  him  to  the 
fringe  of  the  copse.  "Look!"  said  he.  "Which 
way  did  we  come  last  night?  Where  lies  the  inn?" 

Lonely,  tree-clad  country  stretched  away  on  all 
sides;  in  the  distance  the  faint  blue  of  the  Wilt- 
shire Downs  faded  into  the  sky. 

"I  don't  know,"  confessed  the  girl. 

"Then,  believe  me,  neither  does  Mr.  Carew.  He'll 
be  back  again  'fore  we've  done  breakfast.  I'll  make 
a  smoke  to  guide  him,  he's  no  forester." 

And  sure  enough  he  returned,  crestfallen,  sulky, 
fearful  of  being  teased. 

But  Merodach  made  no  remark  upon  his  absence. 
He  cut  a  thick  slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  passed 
over  an  egg  and  the  remaining  milk.  Subdued, 
Ralph  ate  and  drank  and  was  coldly  civil ;  but  when 
Merodach  trampled  out  the  fire  and  buckled 
the  half -empty  valise  upon  his  shoulders,  Carew 
roused. 

"Look  ye,"  he  began.  "All  this  folly  of  walking 
to  Winterbourne — positively,  I  forbid  it.  It's  sui- 


1 86  MY  LADY  APRIL 

cide!     Guide  us  back  to  the  inn  and  I'll  pay  you 
anything  in  reason  to  drive  us  down  to  Sussex." 

"You  failed  to  find  the  road  we  took  last  night?" 
said  Merodach. 

Young  Carew  bitterly  acknowledged  that  he  had, 
and  anathematized  the  God-forsaken  country. 

Dorothy  winced.  "O  Ralph!  It's  beautiful — 
it's—" 

"Demmed  romantic,  an't  it?"  quoth  he,  eyeing 
her.  "Wait  until  you've  walked  ten  mile,  miss! 
You'll  sing  another  tune!" 

"I'll  sing,  anyway!"  cried  she. 

Merodach  laughed,  and  young  Carew  turned  upon 
him  savagely.  "You — you  damned  prize  fighter! 
You're  a  warlock — you've  bewitched  her!  What 
woman  reared  as  she  has  been  could  walk  an  hun- 
dred miles?" 

"Tis  not  so  far,"  demurred  Merodach,  twin- 
kling. "Miss  Forrest's  capable  of  it,  I'll  swear. 
I'm  not  so  sure  of  you,  sir." 

"Rat  me!"  cried  Ralph,  piqued.  "What  she  can 
do,  I  can!" 

"I'll  challenge  you!"  cried  Dolly,  afire  with  sud- 
den exhilaration.  "I'll  walk  to  Winterbourne  and 
I'll  not  sleep  in  a  house  on  the  way.  I  dare  you, 
Ralph  Carew !  I  dare  you !"  Bright-eyed,  she 
faced  him,  a-thrill  with  the  knowledge  that  Mero- 
dach approved  her  spirit. 

"Gad,"  said  Ralph,  "  'tis  sheerest  lunacy !" 

"What  if  it  is?  I'll  dare  you  to  it!"  Bubbling 
with  laughter  and  mischief  she  snatched  a  hanker 


CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE      187 

from  her  bosom  and  threw  it  at  his  feet.  "My 
gage,  sir.  Dare  you  take  it  up?" 

"Zoons,  Doll!  You're  maddening!"  Young 
Carew  stooped  for  the  square  of  cambric.  I'll  wa- 
ger five  guineas  you  repent  'fore  nightfall !" 

"Not  I!" 

"You'll  not  bet?" 

"No.     I've  no  money." 

"Then  five  to  nothing — five  to  this  handkerchief 
•> — you  repent  before  to-night!" 

"Done!"  said  she.  "Five  guineas  will  be  prodi- 
gious acceptable,  sir." 

They  picked  up  the  bundles  and  set  out,  laugh- 
ing, friendly,  following  Merodach  who  strode  ahead, 
whistling. 

Half -blown  cowslips  nodded  on  the  breezy  hill- 
top; here  and  there  wild  orchis  lifted  frail,  fairy- 
like  petals  to  the  sun;  larks  trilled  in  the  blue,  and 
the  fickle  winds  of  April  drove  light  clouds  over 
the  heavens,  patching  the  countryside  with  gold 
gleams  and  indigo  shadows. 

Merodach  paused  in  a  hazel  bottom  to  cut  three 
sticks,  and  trudged  on  whittling  a  smooth  handle  for 
Dorothy,  an  ear  cocked  for  possible  bickerings  in 
his  rear.  But  having  accepted  the  challenge  young 
Carew  braced  himself  to  his  trial  gallantly.  Some- 
thing of  Dorothy's  gay  assurance  infected  him:  he 
was  merry,  tender,  thoughtful  for  her  comfort.  By 
noon  he  was  carrying  her  bundle  as  well  as  his  own 
slung  from  the  stick  across  his  shoulders;  and  he 
made  no  mention  of  a  blister  upon  each  heel. 


1 88  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Merodach  regarded  him  with  approval  as  they 
sat  down  in  the  shade  of  gigantic  beeches  that 
swung  their  boughs  across  the  chuckling  waters  of 
a  brook.  Carew  was  sweating,  was  palpably  tired, 
yet  he  made  no  complaint.  He  was  a  little  out  of 
condition,  but  a  fortnight  of  hard  work  and  plain 
fare  at  Mrs.  Bradley's  had  done  Miss  Forrest  good. 
She  stretched  herself  like  a  sleepy  cat,  sighing 
contentedly,  prone  upon  her  back  with  her  head  in 
her  arms. 

"You've  ointment  in  your  bundle?"  said  Mero- 
dach, rising  from  the  brookside  with  the  milk  bottle 
brimming  over.  Dolly  nodded.  "Then  grease 
your  feet,  and  give  some  to  Mr.  Carew.  He's 
galled  his  heels."  Ralph  looked  up,  surprised. 
"Your  stockings  are  rubbed  though,"  added  the 
gypsy. 

They  ate  cold  eggs  and  bread  with  a  relish  that 
astonished  Carew.  Demmit,  there  was  something 
to  be  said  for  walking.  It  gave  one  an  appetite  that 
recalled  schooldays.  He  limped  off  to  the  brook  to 
bathe  his  feet,  and  Dorothy  looked  demurely  at 
Merodach,  who  smiled  in  answer. 

"Yes,  the  lad's  gold  at  bottom,"  said  he,  watching 
Ralph's  departure.  "Blood  tells." 

"Then  must  you  be  gently  born!"  flashed  Dolly, 
warm-hearted,  impulsive  by  nature,  her  little  affec- 
tations blown  away  by  the  clean  winds  of  spring, 
finding  herself  among  the  fresh  woods  and  the 
steadfast,  comforting  hills  of  this  most  beautiful 
downland. 


CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE      189 

Merodach  met  her  eyes  and  heaved  the  ghost  of  a 
sigh.  "Oh,  I'm  a  vagrant  all  through!"  said  he, 
rising.  "Come,  we  must  on.  I'll  wait  yonder  with 
Carew  until  you're  ready." 

Rubbing  salve  into  her  feet,  Dorothy  pondered. 

If  Ralph  had  been  Merodach,  and  Merodach 
Ralph?  What  then?  Would  she  have  hesitated, 
as  secretly  she  did  now?  Would  she  have  won- 
dered a  little  tremulously  if  her  marriage  with 
young  Carew  would  be  the  dream  of  bliss  she  had 
imagined?  She  shook  herself  free  of  the  thought. 
She  was  plighted — but  no,  Ralph  had  never  for- 
mally asked  her  to  wed  him.  He  had  this  morning 
announced  his  intention  of  doing  so,  but  had  not 
waited  for  her  consent,  had  appeared  to  take  it  for 
granted. 

Merodach  was  right.  Things  never  turned  out 
as  one  supposed  they  would.  Life  was  an  unre- 
hearsed play;  it  was  better  not  to  arrange  details, 
but  to  trust  to  chance,  to  fate,  to — Providence. 

For  an  instant  she  relaxed,  lying  back  to  stare 
upward  at  the  towering  silver-gray  trunks  above 
her,  conscious  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  a 
greater  power,  a  vaster  knowledge  than  her  own 
ruled  events.  No  service  in  Bath  Abbey  had  stirred 
her  as  did  those  moments  in  which  she  lay  gazing 
into  the  depths  of  opening  leaves  that  spread  in 
a  green  canopy  between  earth  and  sky. 

A  squirrel  ran  down  a  branch,  leaped — a  miracle 
of  a  leap — to  another :  raced  along  to  the  swinging 
tip  and  launched  itself  into  space  with  the  ease  and 


1 9o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

certainty  of  a  bird  alighting.  A  second  followed 
hot-foot,  busy  tail  trailing,  and  the  love-chase  contin- 
ued until  she  lost  sight  of  flying  lady  and  pursuing 
lord. 

Flushing,  she  sat  upright  and  pulled  on  her  shoes. 
It  would  be  well  to  fly  love,  to  hold  him  at  a  dis- 
tance until  she  knew  her  mind.  She  had  been  too 
ready  to  trust  young  Carew.  At  the  end  of  their 
journey  they  would  be  more  familiar  with  each  oth- 
er's thoughts,  likes,  dislikes.  It  was  monstrous  ven- 
turesome in  her  to  have  eloped  with  him  on  so 
slight  an  acquaintance,  and  yet — what  else  could 
she  have  done? 

Sobered,  a  little  forlorn,  she  rejoined  the  two  men 
and  they  set  forth  again,  keeping  to  grass  tracks 
and  by-lanes,  avoiding  scattered  farms  and  isolated 
villages  tucked  away  among  the  folds  of  the  Downs, 
until  with  the  early  twilight  they  came  to  a  highroad, 
dipping  and  climbing  to  drop  at  last  into  the  green 
vale  of  the  Test;  and  here  in  a  bay  of  sheep-cropped 
turf  wailed  with  flaming  gorse,  Merodach  slipped 
the  pack  from  his  shoulders  and  stretched,  easing 
weary  muscles.  Dorothy  plumped  down  upon  the 
bag,  tired,  but  laughing.  Young  Carew  spread  the 
rug  upon  the  grass  and  himself  upon  the  rug. 

"Come  now,"  he  wheedled.  "Confess,  Doll! 
You  do  repent!" 

"No!"  she  cried.  "A  thousand  times  no!  But 
I'm  hungry." 

Ralph  pulled  out  a  silk  purse  and  tossed  five 


CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE      191 

guineas  into  her  lap,  a  little  astonished  that  she  in- 
stantly handed  them  to  the  gypsy. 

"What  now?"  said  he.     "  Tis  yours." 

"O  tally!"  returned  Dorothy.  "We're  two  meals 
in  Merodach's  debt  already.  How  d'ye  suppose  he 
got  breakfast  and  dinner  ?  He  must  have  paid  some 
farmer's  wife.  And  now  we  need  a  saucepan  and  a 
kettle  and  three  mugs  and  a  basket  to  carry  'em  in 
— besides  food  and  drink.  Take  the  money,  Mero- 
dach,  and  go  buy.  We'll  wait  here  for  you." 

They  spent  that  night  in  a  tiled  barn  standing 
in  the  corner  of  a  wheat-field.  A  loft  at  one  end 
was  Dorothy's  chamber,  and  snuggling  down  in  her 
sweet-scented  bed,  she  slept  dreamlessly  until  the 
twitter  of  swallows  in  the  high-pitched  roof  awoke 
her. 

She  knelt  upright  to  peer  into  the  barn,  half -filled 
with  last  year's  straw,  wrapped  in  a  brown  twi- 
light shot  with  floating  golden  motes  where  the 
sun  struck  redly  through  a  square  window.  Mero- 
dach  and  Ralph  lay  below :  the  newly  acquired  cook- 
ing-pots were  spread  upon  the  threshing-floor,  be- 
side two  oddly  shaped  bundles  which  she  had  been 
too  tired  to  examine  overnight. 

She  crept  down  the  ladder  and  stole  across  to 
open  them.  A  red-brown  shawl ;  strong,  low-heeled 
shoes  of  thick  leather;  a  couple  of  colored  kerchiefs, 
and  a  man's  felt  hat  and  gray  worsted  stockings 
were  in  one:  the  other  held  a  medley  of  ribbons, 
and  laces,  buttons,  tape;  ballads  printed  on  long 


1 92  MY  LADY  APRIL 

strips  of  yellowish  paper,  and  a  dozen  other  odds 
and  ends  to  be  found  in  every  peddler's  pack. 

Wondering,  she  turned  them  over,  and  looked  up 
to  find  the  gypsy's  black  eyes  upon  her. 

"Gad!"  said  he,  stifling  a  yawn.  "How  I've 
slept!" 

"Your  fingers  are  all  inkstained,"  said  she,  staring. 

"I  had  occasion  to  write  a  letter  last  night,  and 
'twas  a  vile  quill,"  he  returned  coolly. 

She  held  up  a  string  of  red  beads.  "Buy  a  neck- 
lace for  your  sweetheart,  sir  ?  Any  tape,  mistress  ? 
Needles — pins  ?" 

Merodach  laughed.  "That's  the  game,  child. 
You're  to  the  manner  born." 

"And  are  these  for  me?"  said  she,  weighing  the 
shoes  in  her  hand.  "They're  monstrous  thick." 

"They'll  be  more  comfortable  than  your  own." 

"But  how  did  you  know  my  size?" 

To  her  amazement  the  man  blushed  furiously,  but 
he  would  not  look  away.  "Faith,  haven't  I  held 
your  foot  in  my  hand?"  said  he.  "They'll  fit. 
Try  'em!"  He  went  out  and  she  could  hear  him 
savagely  breaking  sticks  for  the  fire. 

The  shoes  fitted,  the  shawl  went  well  with  her 
work-worn  peacock  blue  gown.  She  tied  a  kerchief 
over  her  hair  and  examined  the  effect  in  the  little 
mirror  she  carried  in  her  bundle.  A  glowing  face 
laughed  back  at  her:  she  could  hardly  believe  she 
was  the  same  girl  who  had  been  taken  to  the  Rooms 
in  a  sedan  that  night  less  than  a  month  ago. 

"Zoons !"  said  young  Carew,  propping  himself  on 


CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE      193 

his  hands  and  staring.     "What  under  the  sun  have 
you  done  to  yourself  ?" 

She  held  up  a  ballad.  "Buy  a  song,  sir?  Only  a 
penny.  Listen,  'tis  a  sweet  air,  and  passing  sad — 

'  The  water  is  wide,  I  can  not  get  o'er 

And  neither  have  I  wings  to  fly. 
Give  me  a  boat  that  will  carry   two, 
And  both  shall  row,  my  love  and  I.'  " 

"Demmit,"  growled  Ralph.  "There's  no  need  to 
make  a  fool  of  yourself.  You  might  be  a  tinker's 
wife!" 

"Better  that  than  a  gentleman's  mistress !" 

He  winced,  but  Dorothy  was  laughing.  "I'm 
dressing  to  the  part,"  said  she,  arranging  her  wares 
in  the  big  basket.  "Merodach,  Mr.  Carew  dis- 
approves my  costume." 

The  gypsy  leaned  against  the  open  door  and  looked 
from  one  to  the  other.  "Faith,  'tis  safer,  sir.  To- 
morrow's May  Day  and  the  villages'll  be  full  of  riff- 
raff. Miss  Forrest  would  excite  remark,  tramping 
the  roads  in  her  own  person.  But  as  my — sister — " 

"But  what  of  me?"  cried  Ralph.  "I'll  not  dress 
as  a  vagrant  to  pleasure  you !" 

Merodach  twinkled  at  Dorothy,  who  threw  back 
her  head  and  laughed  whole-heartedly. 

"O  lud !"  sobbed  she,  wiping  her  eyes  and  rocking 
to  and  fro.  "O  Ralph !  If  you  could  but  see  your- 
self— here!"  She  caught  up  the  little  mirror  and 
tossed  it  toward  him,  shrieking  with  delight  at  his 
fallen  face. 


i94  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Gad !"  He  caressed  a  chin  on  which  the  downy 
growth  showed  black.  "I'd  forgot  I'd  not  shaved." 

"Shaved !"  gurgled  Dolly.  "O  me !  Your  hair's 
full  of  dust,  your  cravat's  torn,  your  coat —  O 
Ralph!  your  coat!" 

He  took  it  off,  shook  it  out  and  regarded  it  with 
a  wry  smile.  "Sure,  Merodach,  you'd  no  need  to  go 
buy  me  a  disguise,"  he  admitted.  "I  must  appear  a 
very  scarecrow !" 

"I  got  a  neckerchief  for  you,"  returned  Merodach, 
smothering  a  desire  to  smite  the  lad  jovially  upon  the 
back.  "And  some  stockings  and  a  hat.  You  miss 
your  wig,  sir,  I  imagine." 

"Yes.  I  lost  it  somewhere  on  the  road.  I've  the 
deuce  of  a  cold." 

Ralph  stepped  free  of  the  straw  and  followed  them 
out  into  the  barnyard  where  a  fire  glowed  and  the 
sound  and  smell  of  frying  bacon  suggested  breakfast. 
And  when  the  meal  was  over  they  went  soberly 
through  the  glowing  red  and  brown  houses  of  Stock- 
bridge,  still  half  awake  and  peopled  solely  by  yawn- 
ing apprentices  staggering  beneath  shutters,  and  be- 
capped  maidservants  twirling  dripping  mops  between 
their  arms. 

One  or  two  gave  them  good  morning  as  they 
trudged  by,  but  Merodach  merely  nodded  and 
pushed  on;  unwilling  to  anger  young  Carew  by 
needlessly  subjecting  Dorothy  to  the  indignity  of 
chaffering. 

So,  down  the  wide,  irregular  street  that  spans  the 
valley;  across  the  blue,  "green-haired"  waters  of  the 


CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE      195 

Test,  they  came  by  downland  and  common,  by  lane 
and  by-road  to  the  lush  water-meadows  and  the 
flower-strewn  marshlands  of  the  Itchen. 

Snipe  drummed  in  the  swamps;  sedge  warblers 
chattered  briskly  over  their  nest  building;  and  moor 
hens,  convoying  fleets  of  fluffy  black  chicks,  swam 
with  their  quaint  bobbing  motion  in  and  out  the 
clumps  of  reeds  and  springing  flags. 

A  farmer's  wife,  pausing  at  her  garden  gate, 
hailed  Dorothy  as  she  passed ;  and  the  girl  turned  and 
swung  her  basket  forward  to  show  her  wares,  shy 
now  that  the  time  had  come  to  play  her  part. 

Ralph  humped  his  shoulders  and  went  on  out  of 
sight:  Merodach  lingered,  watching  solicitously: 
and  the  farmer's  wife,  choosing  needles  and  thread 
looked  up  in  surprise  at  the  girl's  faltering  answers. 

"Ye're  new  to  this  game,  my  dear,"  said  she, 
shaking  her  head.  "Tape  be  worth  more'n  that. 
Ye'll  never  grow  rich  at  this  rate." 

Dorothy  smiled  a  little  wistfully.  "I've  a  lot  to 
learn,"  she  admitted. 

"Bad  luck,  havin'  to  take  to  the  road,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Butterwick.  "Troubles  come  to  all  on  us,  but 
I  thank  the  dear  Lord  I've  a  roof  over  my  head." 
She  looked  from  Merodach,  hung  about  with  the  pots 
and  pans,  to  the  tired  figure  of  the  girl.  "Coin* 
far?" 

"To  my  cousin's  at  Winterbourne,"  said  Dolly. 

"To  Winterbourne  in  Sussex?  Well  now,  that's 
my  native!  Mebbe  ye  know  Mistus  Coulter  thai 
kep'  the  Magpie?  She  were  an  aunt  o'  mine." 


i96  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"I  knew  her  well,"  said  Dolly.  "She  died  a  year 
ago." 

"Well,  think  o'  that,  now,  you  comin'  from 
Winterbourne !  My  master  han't  no  gurt  likin'  for 
pikers,  but  if  ye're  Sussex  borned  he'll  say  naun.  I 
rackon  ye'd  like  to  come  in  an'  set  a  bit.  There's 
brencheese  an'  a  bit  o'  cold  pie.  Come  yer  ways." 
She  held  the  gate  open  invitingly.  "Yer  brother 
went  on?  Go  pick  him  up,  lad.  I'll  mother  her." 

Merodach  nodded,  dropped  his  pack  over  the 
fence  and  hurried  after  Ralph;  while  Dorothy  fol- 
lowed her  hostess  up  the  gray  flower-garden  to  a 
timbered,  red  brick  house,  built  in  intricate  herring- 
bone patterns  as  though  the  workman  had  loved  his 
trade. 

Chatting  amiably,  Mrs.  Butterwick  laid  supper  at 
one  end  of  a  long  table ;  showed  Dorothy  where  the 
pump  stood,  and  was  making  up  the  fire  when 
Merodach  returned  with  the  reluctant  Ralph.  The 
gypsy  was  at  ease,  merry,  grateful;  but  the  unprec- 
edented experience  of  receiving  charity  jarred 
young  Carew.  He  ate  and  drank  with  his  eyes  upon 
his  plate,  and  made  no  attempt  at  conversation;  sit- 
ting aloof,  intensely  uncomfortable  and  out  of  his 
element,  while  Merodach  and  Dolly  helped  their 
hostess  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 

Presently  in  came  the  farmer,  red-faced,  jovial, 
clad  in  earth-stained  coat  and  breeches  round  which 
clung  the  reek  of  wood  smoke  and  the  pungent 
odor  of  horses. 

"Hey,  mistus!"  he  called,  holding  up  a  handful 


CAREW  ACCEPTS  A  CHALLENGE      197 

of  white  wool  and  dangling  legs.  "Warm  some 
milk,  will'ee?  Here's  a  hob-lamb  to  be  fed." 
And  broke  off,  with  a  shrewd  glance  at  the  stran- 
gers. "Company?"  said  he,  catching  his  wife's  eye. 

"Coin'  home  to  Winterbourne,"   she  told  him. 

"Well,  ye're  kindly  welcome,  whoever  ye  be! 
Larmentable  purty  weather  we  do  be  having', 
though  the  roads  be  middlin'  slubby." 

Dorothy   reached   for  the  lamb,   her  eyes  wet. 

"Give  him  to  me,  she  murmured,  and  sat  fond- 
ling the  little  creature  until  its  meal  was  ready. 
Then,  kneeling  on  the  hearth,  she  fed  it,  uncon- 
scious of  the  picture  she  made  against  the  black  cav- 
ern of  the  great  chimney:  her  shawl  tucked  about 
the  lamb,  her  hair  tumbling  in  shining  masses  to 
her  neck,  her  hands  busy  with  the  bowl  of  milk 
and  a  sopped  rag. 

Merodach,  answering  Farmer  Butterwick's  ques- 
tions, became  aware  that  the  man  was  watching, 
puzzled,  curious, 

"Well,"  said  he,  stretching  wearily.  "We  must 
on  and  find  shelter.  Up  wi'  ye,  Dolly." 

"Nay  now,  said  the  farmer,  there's  maun  to 
hurry  ye.  Leave  the  maid  be,  she  be  nigh  flogged. 
Ye  can  sleep  in  my  barn  as  well  as  other  where. 
'Tis  May  Day  to-morrow,  an'  ye'd  do  a  fine  trade 
on  the  green  at  merrymaking — by  gum!  I'd  near 
disremembered.  WThat  d'ye  think,  old  'ooman? 
Old  Sam  Isted  were  naun  the  better  for  what  he'd 
took,  an'  he  were  drivin'  that  there  camsteery  horse 
Nightowl,  an'  canted  out  o'  the  wagon  up  along  the 


1 98  MY  LADY  APRIL 

hill  an'  broke  his  arm,  an'  let-be-how-'twill,  he  can't 
fiddle  for  us.  I  promised  Squire  I'd  rout  round  for 
another  fiddler,  an'  now  what  wi'  the  old  ewe  so 
mortacious  bad,  'tis  too  late  to  go  into  Stockbridge 
for  Dick  Lee.  Dang  me  for  a  fool!  There'll  be 
a  hem  set-out-to-morrow." 

"I'll  play  for  you,"  said  Merodach.  "What'll 
they  want?  Country  dances?" 

"You?" 

"Yes.     So  be  as  ye  can  borrow  a  fiddle." 

"Oh  ay,  ye  can  have  the  loanst  of  old  Sam's 
tnusic,  an'  welcome!  Fegs,  an't  this  a  bit  o'  luck? 
D'ye  know  any  Morris  toons  ?  Squire's  fair  set  on 
the  Morris.  He  had  a  man  down  from  Oxford- 
shire to  learn  some  o'  the  village  chaps.  My  wag- 
oner's Captain  this  year.  He'll  run  over  the  toons 
wi'  ye  in  the  mornin'.  Fegs,  an't  this  a  bit  o'  luck  J 
Squire'd  never  forgive  me  if  I'd  failed  him.  He 
do  think  a  heap  o'  May  Day,  bless  his  heart !  Ye'll 
stop,  then?  What  a  bit  o'  luck!  Old  'ooman,  can 
ye  find  a  blanket  for  the  lass,  an'  she  can  sleep  in 
the  hay-mow  as  snug  as  snug.  Fegs,  an't  this  a 
bit  o'  luck!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NEWS 

KICKING  his  heels  in  Bath,  Larry  Cava- 
nagh  waited  impatiently  for  word  from 
Merodach.  None  came.  The  Irishman 
told  himself  that  it  was  hopeless  to  expect  a  letter 
so  soon,  and  looked  about  for  something  of  interest 
that  would  keep  him  occupied  until  he  could  hear. 

Bath  danced  and  gambled;  flirted,  drank  the 
waters;  attended  service  in  the  Abbey,  and  paced 
delicately  in  Spring  Gardens  or  King's  Mead 
Fields.  Nothing  remarkable  occurred  to  break  the 
monotonous  circle  of  daily  existence. 

The  excitement  arising  from  Lady  Forrest's 
elopement  with  Mr.  Cassillis  soon  subsided;  none 
was  seriously  affected;  here  and  there  one  would 
wonder  where  the  daughter  had  hid  herself,  and 
gaining  no  reply,  would  wonder  at  something  else. 

Sir  Julian  might  have  been  in  his  grave  for  ten 
years,  for  all  the  rumor  of  foul  play.  He  was 
gone.  All  would  go,  soon  or  late.  As  gnats  danc- 
ing in  the  sunlight  continue  their  crazy  whirl 
though  half  their  number  be  of  a  sudden  swept 
into  eternity  by  the  swish  of  a  cow's  tail,  so  Bath 
danced  on,  heedless. 

Cavanagh  grew  bored,  became  petulant,  sulked, 
199 


200  MY  LADY  APRIL 

loathed  Bath  and  yet  could  not  leave  it :  determined 
to  ride  out  each  day  in  search  of  distraction  and 
return  only  at  nightfall  in  the  hope  of  finding  a 
letter.  And  it  was  during  one  of  these  aimless 
wanderings  that  he  came  upon  Mrs.  Janet,  late  tire- 
woman to  my  lady  Lavinia. 

Cavanagh  drew  rein  at  a  wayside  tavern  and 
called  for  a  stirrup-cup.  Janet  carried  it  out  and 
waited,  tray  in  hand,  gossiping  while  he  sipped.  It 
was  monstrous  dull  in  the  country,  she  averred, 
tossing  cherry  ribbons  on  a  spotless  cap.  Give  her 
town  for  seeing  life.  Bath  for  choice. 

"  'Tis  monstrous  dull  in  Bath  just  now,  child," 
said  Larry,  and  looked  down  at  her  with  something 
of  recollection  puckering  his  brow.  "Ged,  han't 
I  seen  ye  in  Bath,  my  dear  ?" 

"Lud,  yes!"  cried  Janet.  "An't  ye  Mr.  Cava- 
nagh? I  was  maid  to  Lady  Forrest.  What's  new, 
sir,  if  I  an't  making  too  bold?" 

"New,  child?  Nothing's  new.  There's  been 
no  excitement  since  Sir  Julian  Carew  was  mur- 
dered." 

"Lawks,  sir!  Murdered?  I  han't  heard  of 
that."  Janet  looked  up,  eager  for  detail.  "Last 
time  I  saw  the  old  gentleman  he  seemed  hale 
enough.  A  chin  cough,  but  'tis  nothing.  He  was 
spry  enough  the  night  of  his  eightieth  birthday,  en- 
tertaining his  two  nevvies  and  laying  down  the  law 
that  strampageous !  Ho,  I  couldn't  hear  what  was 
said,  but  I  saw  everything  after  the  major-domo 
drew  the  curtains  back." 


NEWS  201 

"The  night  of  his  eightieth  birthday?"  shouted 
Cavanagh  staring  at  her.  "Is  it  sure  ye  are, 
Jenny?" 

"Sure?  Why  shouldn't  I  be  sure?  Faith,  I've 
enough  to  remember  it  by.  'Twas  the  night  my 
lady  left  Bath,  and  I  left  her  service  and  went  to 
Laverton's  to  my  aunt's.  A  widow  woman,  sir.  I 
found  her  ill  a-bed,  and  looked  after  her  till  she  got 
about  again.  And  then  she  wanted  me  to  live  with 
her  and  help  with  the  market-garden,  but  the  stoop- 
ing do  try  my  back,  sir,  something  cruel.  So  when 
my  savings  were  spent" — Janet's  euphuism  for  the 
money  raised  on  the  clothing  she  had  appropri- 
ated— "I  came  here  as  barmaid.  But  'tis  mon- 
strous dull,  sir,  serving  country  clodhoppers,  and 
never  a  gentleman  among  'em  to  give  me  a  tip." 

"But  Sir  Julian?"  cried  Cavanagh.  "Tell  me  of 
Sir  Julian.  'Tis  a  matter  of  life  or  death!" 

"Lud,  sir,  there's  little  to  tell.  Mr.  Ralph  Carew 
dined  with  him  that  night.  They  had  out  the  gilt 
plate,  and  covers  was  laid  for  three,  but  Mr.  Vale- 
rius didn't  come  till  they'd  done  dinner."  She  medi- 
tated, plaiting  her  apron.  "Mr.  Harris  pulled  the 
curtains  over  the  windows  directly  they  sat  down, 
so  I  couldn't  see  what  they  ate." 

"See  ?     Where  the  deuce  were  ye,  child  ?" 

"Me,  sir  ?  Oh,  I  was  in  our  gaming  rooms,  pre- 
paring for  the  night's  play.  You  can  see  every- 
thing that  goes  on  in  Sir  Julian's  dining-room,  but 
the  old  gentleman  caught  me  peeping  once,  and  ever 
since  then  he's  had  candles  lit  and  the  curtains 


202  MY  LADY  APRIL 

drawn  while  he  dines,  no  matter  how  light  it  is. 
Selfish,  I  call  it!" 

"I'll  give  you  a  guinea  if  ye'll  tell  me  a  straight- 
forward tale  of  all  you  saw  that  night,"  said  Cava- 
nagh,  chafing  at  her  circumlocution.  He  dis- 
mounted, and  tying  Colleen  to  the  ring,  sat  down 
upon  a  bench  against  the  sun-warmed  wall  of  the 
tavern.  "Come,  take  your  time." 

"They  must  ha'  dined  about  four,"  mused  Janet, 
frowning  thoughtfully.  "We  don't — didn't  open 
our  doors  till  eight  and  I'd  nothing  to  do.  I  sat  be- 
side the  window  and  watched  the  passers-by,  for 
company.  At  five  or  thereabout,  Mr.  Valerius 
comes  up  in  a  chair  and  crawls  out  and  pays  the 
men  and  goes  into  the  house.  Nothing  happened 
after  that  for  half  an  hour  or  so.  Then  out  comes 
Mr.  Ralph  very  red  in  the  face,  and  hurried  down 
to  town,  bound  for  the  Rooms,  belike.  In  fact,  I 
remember  hearing  Mrs.  Darbey  say  he  was  to  be 
there.  After  a  bit  I  see  Mr.  Harris  tear  the  cur- 
tains back.  He  flung  up  the  sash,  too,  which  I  won- 
dered at,  seeing  Sir  Julian  was  troubled  with  the  chin 
cough.  He  were  took  in  a  kind  of  fit,  sir,  gasping 
and  clawing  at  his  cravat.  I  could  see  Mr.  Vale- 
rius held  him  round  the  shoulders  while  the  butler 
give  him  a  drink.  Then  Mr.  Harris  hurried  out  o' 
the  room,  and  Sir  Julian  come  to  and  seemed  quite 
hisself.  He  were  monstrous  angered  over  some- 
thing, thumped  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  pointed  to 
the  door.  Mr.  Valerius,  being  a  tired  kind  o'  party, 
spoke  soothing  and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 


NEWS  203 

That  made  Sir  Julian  mad.  He  got  up  and  threw 
an  orange  at  Mr.  Valerius,  and  Mr.  Valerius  draws 
hisself  up  very  haughty  and  bows  and  leaps  out  o' 
window  and  stalks  off  down  the  street  without  his 
hat.  Monstrous  hurt,  sir,  as  any  one  could  see 
with  half  an  eye." 

"But  Sir  Julian?"  insisted  Larry  excitedly. 
"What  of  him?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  sir.  He  went  over  to  his  desk, 
walking  slow  but  quite  able,  and  took  a  key  off  of 
his  fob,  and  unlocked  it  and  began  to  hunt  for  some- 
thing. I  was  waiting  for  him  to  pull  out  a  secret 
drawer,  but  as  ill  luck  would  have  it  my  lady  called 
me  just  then,  so  I  went  above-stairs  to  dress  her 
head,  and  she  kept  me  running  up  and  down  nigh 
two  hours  so  that — " 

"Then  you  didn't  know  that  Mr.  Valerius  was 
thought  to  have  murdered  Sir  Julian?" 

"Lud,  no,  sir!  Murdered?  What  nonsense!  I 
can  prove  he  didn't,  anyway,  seeing  the  old  gentle- 
man alive  at  his  desk  after  his  nevvy  left." 

"Valerius  jumped  though  the  window,  ye  said?" 

"Yes,  sir.  One  hand  on  the  sill,  as  easy  as  a  cat. 
It  did  seem  a  bit  odd,  and  him  being  such  a  tired 
kind  o'  party,  but  I  could  see  he  were  terribly  put 
about.  He  went  off  that  rapid." 

"Ye'd  swear  to  all  this  before  a  magistrate, 
wouldn't  ye  now,  Janet?" 

"Lud  sir,  yes!  Before  any  one,"  said  she  stoutly. 
"Write  it  all  out  fair,  sir,  and  I'll  put  my  mark  to 
it.  I'm  not  much  of  a  dab  with  a  pen." 


204  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Cavanagh  threw  her  a  guinea  and  spurred  home 
to  draw  up  the  document  that  was  to  prove  Valerius 
Carew  innocent. 

A  letter  awaited  him. 

"It  come  by  the  coach  from  Stockbridge,  sir," 
said  his  landlady,  thrusting  her  mutch  round  the 
crack  of  his  door.  "A  shilling  to  pay,  Mr.  Cava- 
nagh." 

He  nodded,  tearing  open  the  folded  paper. 
"Faith,  ye  can  put  it  on  next  week's  bill  in  place  o' 
them  immortal  candles  which  I  never  burn,"  said 
he,  and  read: 

"HONRD.  SIR, — All  safe.  We  walk  to  W — n  as 
quick  as  may  be,  ten  miles  or  so  a  day."  (A  rough 
sketch  map  outlined  the  route.)  "If  necessary,  ad- 
dress me  care  of  Joseph  Marsh,  butler,  Ash  Holt 
Grange,  near  Hazelhurst.  We  should  be  there  by 
Wednesday. 

"Yr.  obdt.  hmble.  servant  to  comd. 

"MERODACH." 

Mr. Cavanagh  read  this  missive  through  several 
times;  staring  thoughtfully  out  of  the  dusty  win- 
dow, and  suddenly  casting  his  hat  upon  the  floor, 
danced  round  it,  whistling. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MAY   DAY   AT   HAZELHURST 

MERODACH    was   shaving   at   the   stable 
door,   having  borrowed  a  razor,   soap 
and  mirror   from  Farmer  Butterwick. 
Young  Carew  came  out  and  regarded  him  with 
some  envy. 

"After  you !"  said  he. 

Merodach  grinned  through  the  lather.  "I'm 
af eared  ye'll  look  too  much  the  gentleman,  shaved." 

"Then  demmit,  I'll  not  stop!"  declared  Ralph. 
"Come  now,  Merodach,  don't  be  jealous!" 

"Deuced  subtle!"  murmured  Merodach,  scraping 
away.  "O  lud,  I  take  you.  You  infer,  sir,  that 
even  shaven  I  could  not  look  a  gentleman."  He 
made  a  leg,  flourishing  his  razor.  "Sounds  devil- 
ish crude,  but  'tis  true,  I  suppose." 

"You're  a  strange  creature,"  quoth  young  Carew, 
swinging  his  feet  as  he  perched  upon  the  horse- 
trough.  "Rat  me  if  I  know  what  to  make  of  you! 
For  a  tramp  you're — " 

"Lord,  Lord,  we're  all  tramps!"  said  the  gypsy, 
and  plunged  his  face  into  the  bucket  of  water. 

From  the  road  beyond  the  farmhouse  came  the 
laughter  and  song  of  children  bearing  garlands  of 
flowers  and  green  branches.  The  dairymaids,  rus- 

205 


206  MY  LADY  APRIL 

tling  in  clean  dresses,  each  had  a  posy  tucked  into 
her  bosom:  new  straw  hats  hung  ready  behind  the 
kitchen  door.  A  wagoner,  seated  upon  the  bench 
where  shining  milk  pails  were  set  to  dry,  was  plait- 
ing fresh  ribbons  to  tie  around  his  elbows  for  the 
Morris :  and  three  lanky  youths  hung  about  the  yard 
waiting  a  chance  to  present  tight  round  nosegays  of 
garden  flowers,  which  they  endeavored  to  conceal 
behind  them;  jealously  scowling  at  one  another; 
tongue-tied  and  shy  whenever  one  of  the  maids 
tripped,  smiling  consciously,  past  the  open  door. 

Before  noon  the  village  green  was  thronged  with 
country-folk  clad  in  their  best  for  the  most  joyous 
holiday  of  all  the  year.  On  a  seat  that  circled  one 
of  the  giant  oaks  the  Parson  gossiped  with  half  a 
dozen  aged  worthies,  who,  hand  behind  ear  and  stick 
between  knees,  were  prepared  to  sit  day-long  and 
criticise  their  more  agile  neighbors. 

Grandmothers  ambled  sedately  between  couples 
of  toddling  youngsters,  followed  by  proud  mothers 
carrying  the  very  youngest.  Children  of  all  ages 
romped  and  shrieked,  or  crowded  round  a  green 
booth  to  gaze  in  awe  at  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Mar- 
ian, and  a  fat  jester  struggling  into  his  hobby-horse. 

The  Squire  had  had  bowers  of  wattle  hurdles  and 
leafy  branches  erected  on  one  side  of  the  green, 
where  the  gray  wall  of  the  Manor  grounds  bounded 
the  expanse  of  turf  and  here  cakes  and  ale,  cold 
meat  and  pastry  were  to  be  had  for  the  asking. 

A  Maypole,  gay  with  hoops  and  garlands  of  flow- 
ers, towered  above  everything,  and  at  its  foot  an 


MAY  DAY  AT  HAZELHURST     207 

upturned  hogshead,   covered  with  a   scarlet  cloth, 
was  ready  for  the  fiddler. 

Farmer  Butterwick,  in  green  broadcloth  and  brass 
buttons  that  winked  in  the  sun,  shepherded  his  party 
from  the  farm:  Mrs.  Butterwick,  a  son  and  his 
wife,  a  daughter  and  her  husband  and  four  scamper- 
ing children;  the  wagoners,  the  dairymaids,  a  herd 
boy,  and  the  still  dangling,  nosegay-carrying  beaux, 
who  had  not  yet  plucked  up  sufficient  courage  to  ad- 
vance with  their  offerings.  Merodach  and  his  bor- 
rowed fiddle,  and  Dolly  with  her  basket,  brought  up 
the  rear. 

Young  Carew,  shaven  but  still  shamefaced,  re- 
fused to  join  them,  saying  he  would  follow  later, 
when  he  could  slip  in  among  the  crowd  unobserved. 

"Poor  lad !"  said  Merodach  as  they  set  out.  "He 
labors  under  the  delusion  that  the  whole  of  crea- 
tion can  look  at  nothing  else.  Tis  but  a  malady 
of  youth.  'Twill  pass." 

Dorothy  laughed.  "I  suffered  the  complaint  my- 
self, years  ago,  at  my  first  ball." 

"Ah,"  returned  Merodach  with  something 
vaguely  resembling  a  bow.  "But  in  your  case  'twas 
true."  He  flung  out  his  hand  toward  a  mag- 
nificent bird  that  spread  his  tail  from  the  wall  of  the 
Manor.  "Look !  Even  the  peacock  is  all  eyes  for 
you!" 

"Merodach,"  said  the  girl  gently,  "don't  spoil 
our  friendship  with  empty  compliments."  She  slid 
her  hand  into  his.  "I — I'm  prodigious  lonely, 
Merodach.  I  need  a  friend  more  than  you  can 


208  MY  LADY  APRIL 

know."  Her  voice  died  in  her  throat,  she  turned 
wet  eyes  away. 

The  gypsy  said  nothing  but  gripped  her  fingers, 
and  hand  in  hand  they  followed  the  farmer  to  the 
foot  of  the  Maypole  where  Squire  Hazelhurst  and 
his  lady  and  a  dozen  guests  awaited  them. 

"Morning,  Squire,"  called  Butterwick,  touching 
his  hat.  "A  merry  May  to  'ee,  sir,  an'  many  of 
'em!  I've  brought  'ee  a  fiddler,  Squire."  He 
jerked  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  Merodach,  who 
smiled  and  nodded  a  bare  head. 

"O  la!"  whispered  one  of  the  girls  from  the 
Manor.  "Ljook,  Lucy!  An't  he  a  handsome  fel- 
low!" Fans  fluttered,  dainty  hats  bobbed  together 
as  their  wearers  stood  a-tiptoe  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  gypsy;  but  the  men  of  the  party  had  eyes 
only  for  Dorothy. 

"Sink  me!"  said  Colin  Carmichael,  poising  a 
quizzing  glass.  "A  country  beauty!  A  hedge- 
rose!  Burn  my  soul!"  And  pressed  nearer,  star- 
ing. 

Dorothy  found  herself  the  center  of  a  laughing, 
ogling  crowd  of  men,  but  this  was  nothing  new. 
She  backed  against  the  wall  of  a  booth,  and 
ensconced  behind  her  basket,  held  them  off  and 
had  a  retort  for  every  sally. 

Quick  to  take  her  measure,  the  gentlemen  con- 
tented themselves  with  choosing  ribbons  to  offer 
as  fairings  to  the  ladies.  One  or  two  farm  lads 
bought  up  the  rest,  and  Dorothy  was  soon  left 
swinging  an  empty  basket  and  watching  rather 


MAY  DAY  AT  HAZELHURST     209 

wistfully  the  impressive  ceremony  of  crowning  the 
Queen  of  May.  A  pretty,  red-haired  lass  was  en- 
circled with  a  green  garland;  crowned  with  a 
wreath  of  primroses,  solemnly  embraced  by  the 
Squire  and  amid  cheers  and  the  waving  of  berib- 
boned  hats,  escorted  to  her  throne  beneath  the  oak. 
Then  lines  formed  for  the  first  dance,  in  which, 
following  the  time-honored  custom  of  the  village, 
the  Squire  and  his  lady  took  part. 

"My  Lady  Cullen!"  shouted  the  Squire,  bus- 
tling from  group  to  group.  "Longways  for  as 
many  as  will,  but  make  it  twelve  couple  or  we'll  be 
at  it  till  dinner-time.  A  dozen  couple.  Butter- 
wick,  line  'em  up!  Come,  Parson,  you're  dancing, 
Mrs.  Butterwick  lacks  a  partner.  Hi,  Doctor! 
No  sneaking  off  to  smoke,  now.  Find  a  maid,  sir, 
find  a  maid !  Now,  Carmichael — Wallace — a  dozen 
couple.  This  set  full?  No,  ye  want  two.  Lucy, 
my  dear,  bring  your  Philip.  Are  we  ready? 
Strike  up,  fiddler!  My  Lady  Cullen!" 

Seizing  his  wife's  hand  the  worthy  Squire  led  his 
set,  "up  a  double  atnd  back,  all  that  again,  set  and 
turn  single — "  his  face  radiating  smiles,  his  wig 
askew,  his  lace  ruffles  fluttering:  the  surliest  cur- 
mudgeon could  not  have  resisted  his  overflowing 
good-nature. 

My  Lady  Cullen  ending  in  bobs  and  bows,  the 
Squire's  party  retired  to  the  booth  set  apart  for 
their  use,  and  sat  waving  fans  and  kerchiefs,  and 
declaring  that  it  was  prodigious  hot  for  the  time  of 
year :  watching  with  varying  degrees  of  interest  the 


210  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Morris  men  processing  across  the  green,  led  by  the 
prancing  hobby-horse,  Robin  Hood  winding  his 
horn,  and  a  lanky  Maid  Marian,  a  little  sheepish 
in  his  girl's  attire. 

With  a  rhythmical  sweep  of  white  handkerchiefs 
and  flutter  of  ribbons  at  waist  and  knee,  the  Morris 
men,  solemn,  yet  expressing  a  restrained  exhilara- 
tion, went  through  the  figures  of  Step  Back,  the 
bells  upon  their  legs  ringing  lustily  in  time  to  the 
stamp  of  feet  and  the  swinging,  inspiriting  music  of 
the  fiddle.  The  Squire  sat  intent,  critical  as  only 
one  can  be  who  has  had  practical  experience  of  this 
ancient  form  of  art.  The  Rose  followed :  Farmer 
Butterwick's  wagoner  danced  the  Princess  Royal 
jig;  and  then  the  Squire  called  them  all  into  his 
booth  to  drink  the  inevitable  healths.  The  King, 
God  bless  him!  The  Queen  of  May.  The  Squire, 
deafening  cheers.  Mrs.  Hazelhurst  and  family, 
more  cheers.  The  gentry  from  the  Manor,  and  so 
on  a d  infinitum. 

Merodach,  sitting  on  his  hogshead,  mopped  his 
face  and  smiled  across  at  Dorothy,  who  presently 
made  her  way  through  the  moving  crowd  and  leaned 
against  the  Maypole,  absently  plucking  at  the 
strings  of  the  violin. 

"I  didn't  know  you  played,  Merodach,"  said  she. 

For  an  instant  he  was  off  his  guard.  "Faith,  I 
keep  it  dark.  'Tis  considered  monstrous  vulgar. 
The  flute's  your  only  genteel  instrument." 

She  looked  up,  recognizing  that  here  spoke  an 
equal.  "Who  are  you,  Merodach?" 


MAY  DAY  AT  HAZELHURST    211 

He  shrugged.  "What's  in  a  name?  My  soul's 
my  own,  were  my  father  lord  or  lackey.  Give  me 
the  fiddle,  child,  and  get  ye  a  partner.  Here  comes 
the  Squire." 

He  came,  nodding  cheerily  at  Merodach,  beckon- 
ing to  Dorothy.  "D'ye  know  Gathering  Peascods, 
fiddler?  Just  for  the  youngers.  Come,  child,  you 
must  dance.  My  son'll  jump  at  the  chance.  Robin 
— Robin,  here's  a  partner  for  ye!" 

A  rosy-cheeked  lad  of  eighteen  ran  up,  offered 
Dorothy  his  wrist  and  led  her  off. 

"Now  then!"  cried  the  Squire,  waving  his  hat. 
"Gathering  Peascods!" 

A  great  circle  of  children  ringed  the  Maypole, 
hand  in  hand,  jumping  with  excitement.  Here  and 
there  a  stripling  shot  up  above  the  smaller  fry,  or 
a  long-legged  girl  stooped  for  the  hands  of  two 
seven-year-olds.  As  the  fiddle  shrilled  out  the 
Squire  retired,  dreaming,  and  sat  himself  down  to 
watch;  and  at  this  moment  young  Carew  lounged 
along  the  sun-flecked  road  in  search  of  Dorothy. 

Up  bounced  the  Squire  to  accost  him.  "Hi 
there,  my  man !" 

Startled,  Ralph  stopped  and  stared,  neglecting  to 
touch  his  hat.  A  farm  hand  knocked  it  off  for  him. 

"Dang'ee,   cap   Squire!"   he  bawled  truculently. 

"You're  a  stranger?"  said  the  Squire,  advancing. 
"You're  welcome.  We're  merrymaking  to-day. 
First  of  May,  ye  know.  Must  keep  up  old 
customs.  Sit  down,  man,  and — why — what's  this? 
What's  this?" 


212  MY  LADY  APRIL 

A  girl  left  the  Manor  party  and  came  toward 
them  smiling,  flushing,  a  dainty  hand  outstretched. 

"O  me!"  cried  she  gayly.  "  Tis  Ralph  Carevv! 
Lud,  how  strange!  We  part  in  Paris  to  meet 
again  in  Hazelhurst.  Sure,  you've  not  been  so  un- 
gallant  as  to  forget  me? 

Thunderstruck,  poor  Ralph  stood  staring,  scarlet 
to  the  ears,  fingering  that  absurd  felt  hat.  "Miss 
Carmichael?"  he  stammered. 

"Who  else  ?  But  in  Paris  it  was  Julie,  wasn't  it  ? 
Fickle  creature,  you  vowed  you'd  write,  but  no — 
never  a  line.  Uncle,  you  must  know  Ralph  Carew. 
You  remember  his  uncle,  Sir  Julian.  Dear  old 
man !  How  does  he,  Ralph  ?  I  seem  to  know  him 
so  well,  from  all  your  talk  of  him." 

Suppressing  his  astonishment  with  an  effort,  the 
Squire  shook  hands  with  this  tatterdemalion  and 
patted  his  niece  upon  the  arm. 

"Lud,  Julie,"  said  he.  "Your  friends  crop  up 
in  unexpected  quarters,  on  my  soul !.  Carew,  you're 
very  welcome,  if  only  for  your  uncle's  sake.  We 
were  at  school  together,  though  he  must  ha'  been 
years  older  than  I.  I  owe  him  thanks  for  many  a 
kindness  to  a  homesick  youngster,  bullied  out  of  his 
five  wits.  Hallo,  the  dance  is  over.  Carew,  I'll 
leave  you  to  Julie's  tender  mercies!  Excuse  me." 
He  bustled  away  and  young  Carew  remained  miser- 
ably gazing  at  the  turf. 

"What  ails  the  man?"  said  Miss  Carmichael, 
glancing  demurely  from  beneath  long  lashes. 

"Why — why,    'tis    devilish    distressing,    meeting 


MAY  DAY  AT  HAZELHURST     213 

you  like  this,"  floundered  Ralph,  conscious  of  her 
amusement. 

"You're  not  glad  to  see  me.  Helas,  these 
ephemeral  vows!" 

"Gad,  I  don't  mean  that,  Julie!"  he  cried.  "But 
I — this  dress — I'm  not  fit  company — I — " 

She  screwed  her  hand  into  an  imaginary  spyglass 
and  regarded  him  quizzically,  to  his  intense  dis- 
comfort. 

"Lud,  I  find  you  improved,  Ralph.  You've 
grown.  I  protest  you've  quite  a  color.  Dear 
heart,  how  the  child  blushes!  La,  what's  a  shabby 
coat?  I  dare  swear  you're  doing  this  for  a  wager." 

"I— I  am,"  faltered  Ralph.  "  Tis  secret.  I'm 
— I'm  vowed  not  to  disclose — " 

"How  intriguing!  Come,  sit  with  me  and  re- 
count all  your  desperate  adventures.  How  long  is't 
since  we  parted  and  you  rushed  off  to  pay  your 
devoirs  to  Sir  Julian?  A  month!  And  you've 
not  writ  to  me.  'Twas  monstrous  cruel  in  you, 
sir,  and  I  at  the  window  each  morn,  languishing 
for  a  letter.  Come,  you  may  bring  me  a  glass  of 
cider  and  a  cake — a  large  one,  Ralph,  with  candied 
peel  atop.  And  we'll  sit  here  and  I'll  listen 
leniently  to  your  apologies." 

"O  lud!"  thought  young  Carew.  "Here's 
another  woman  demanding  apologies!"  He 
pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  brought  refresh- 
ment, dropping  beside  Miss  Carmichael's  chair, 
his  face  afire,  his  ears  tingling;  unable  to  reply  to 
her  rallying;  conscious  that  from  a  distance  Mero- 


214  MY  LADY  APRIL 

-iach  was  regarding  him  with  amusement  and 
Dorothy  with  surprise  ;i  hot  with  shame  at  the 
smothered  titters  from  the  ladies  of  the  Manor,  who 
behind  painted  fans  whispered  together  and  laughed 
maliciously. 

Devoutly  hoping  that  Dorothy  would  have  the 
good  sense  to  keep  away,  he  turned  his  back  upon 
the  green  and  endeavored  to  answer  Miss  Car- 
michael's  questions  without  implicating  himself 
with  Miss  Forrest.  The  girl  beside  him  was  piqued 
but  ready  to  listen  to  explanations,  and  he  was  tell- 
ing her  of  his  uncle's  sudden  death  when  the  fiddle 
began  again  and  squares  formed  for  Saint  Martin's, 

Miss  Carmichael  sprang  to  her  feet.  "DancS 
with  me,  Ralph.  I  adore  country  dances,  and  on 
such  turf!  Uncle,  Uncle!  Have  you  a  partner? 
Come  face  us."  She  caught  Carew  by  the  cuff  and 
pulled  him  forward,  and  the  wretched  fellow  found 
himself  opposite  Dorothy;  Dorothy  with  set  lips 
and  dangerously  cool  eyes.  He  got  through  the 
dance  somehow,  tingling  as  she  turned  her  shoulder 
to  him  in  the  honor;  and  led  Miss  Carmichael  back 
to  her  seat. 

"An't  my  uncle  deliciously  sans  faqon,  dancing 
with  that  peddler  girl?"  said  she,  snapping  open  her 
fan  and  handing  it  to  him  to  wield.  "A  pretty 
wench.  The  tenants  adore  him,  and  can  you  won- 
der ?  Shall  you  make  such  a  squire  when  you  come 
into  your  own,  Ralph?" 

He  shrugged.     "There's  my  cousin  Valerius  to 


MAY  DAY  AT  HAZELHURST     215 

be  reckoned  with.  He's  heir.  We've  to  prove  his 
death  'fore  I  can  inherit." 

"His  death?"  shrieked  Julie,  horror-struck. 

"Lud,  yes.  He's  disappeared.  Everything  goes 
to  him  if  he's  alive.  Ash  Holt,  the  London  house, 
everything!" 

"Ash  Holt  is  somewhere  hereabout,  is't  not?" 

"Five  miles  or  so  from  here,  I  suppose.  'Tis 
years  since  I  was  there." 

"La,  how  I  would  love  to  see  it !"  exclaimed  Miss 
Carmichael,  clasping  her  hands.  "We  could  ride 
over  and  picnic.  Delicious !  Uncle — Uncle !  Mr. 
Carew  has  a  house  near.  Elizabethan,  you  said, 
Ralph  ?  I  dote  upon  old  houses.  Can  we  ride  over 
to-morrow  and  send  a  groom  with  dinner  ?  It's  oc- 
cupied, Ralph?" 

"There's  a  housekeeper,  I  believe,"  returned  poor 
Carew,  dazed  with  the  young  lady's  impetuosity, 
sublimely  blind  to  the  fact  that  Julie  was  perfectly 
aware  of  his  unhappiness  and  was  endeavoring  to 
punish  him  for  his  neglect  of  her.  "But  I  tell  you, 
Julie — 'tis  my  cousin's  place,  I've  no — " 

"Oh,  Sir  Valerius  won't  know,  and  if  he  did  he'd 
never  be  so  churlish,  as  to  object.  Uncle,  you'll 
mount  Ralph?  Ladybird  would  be  up  to  his 
weight." 

"Just  as  you  please,  my  dear,"  said  the  Squire 
absently,  watching  The  Phoenix  with  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  frown  that  ever  ruffled  his  benign 
forehead.  "Gad,  'tis  degenerating  to  a  romp! 


216  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Too  bad — too  bad!  Shocking,  Robin,  shocking! 
Positively  most  distressing!  Country  dances  an't 
a  game  of  catch-as-catch-can,  lad !" 

"'Tis  difficult  to  get  round  in  time,  on  turf,  sir," 
laughed  the  boy,  rubbing  damp  temples.  "What 
now,  Julie?" 

"Come  be  presented  to  Ralph  Carew,"  she  called. 
"He's  to  take  us  over  to-morrow  to  Ash  Holt 
Grange.  Well  then,  if  not  to-morrow,  next  day! 
Lud,  what  a  popinjay  it  is !  We  can  send  a  groom 
for  your  baggage,  sir.  Harry,  you'll  ride  with  us? 
And  Colin  and  Robin  and  Philip  and  Lucy.  And 
my  uncle,  of  course.  We'll  picnic  in  the  park  be- 
neath the  haunted  oak.  Who  is  it  walks  there, 
Ralph?" 

Poor  Carew  muttered  something  inaudible  and 
endeavored  to  edge  away,  but  Miss  Carmichael 
laid  a  compelling  hand  upon  his  arm.  "Wait — 
you'll  come  stay  at  the  Manor  and  we'll  send  for 
your  clothes.  Where  did  you  say?  An  inn  at — 
lud,  sir!  No  excuses!  My  uncle  will  never  for- 
give me  if  you  refuse  his  hospitality.  One  might 
think  from  your  'havior  that  you  wished  to  quarrel 
— you  don't?  Then  be  persuaded." 

"I'll  come  when — after  my  baggage  arrives,"  he 
stammered.  "I'm  not  prepared — faith,  Miss  Car- 
michael— you  must  see  that  'tis  impossible  for  me 
to  visit  in  these  rags.  Wait  until  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, and  I'll  make  the  necessary  arrangements. 
Gad,  Julie,  don't  be  unreasonable." 

Miss   Carmichael  pouted.     "Oh,   very  well,   sir. 


MAY  DAY  AT  HAZELHURST     217 

But  I  shall  expect  you  o'  Thursday,  clothed  and  in 
your  right  mind!" 

She  gave  him  her  hand  to  kiss;  and  he  contrived 
to  laugh  and  make  his  adieux,  and  slunk  back  to 
the  Butterwick's  barn,  where  sprawling  on  the 
straw  he  worried  over  the  situation,  revolving  every 
possible  expedient,  rejecting  one  plan  after  another 
until  the  dusk  melted  into  night  and  he  lay  staring 
into  the  darkness  of  the  timbered  roof,  utterly  miser- 
able, unable  to  see  a  way  out  of  the  tangle  into 
which  his  too  susceptible  heart  had  led  him. 


CHAPTER  XX 

YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE 

THE  merrymaking  continued  on  the  green 
with  increasing  intervals  for  refreshment, 
until  twilight  fell. 

Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian  danced  and  drank 
and  ate  until  they  could  no  more,  but  lay,  replete 
and  somnolent,  in  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the 
trees.  Maid  Marian,  misliking  his  unaccustomed 
skirt,  wriggled  out  of  it  and  appeared  in  laced 
bodice,  chip  hat  and  breeches,  to  the  huge  delight 
of  the  children,  who  clamored  for  rides  on  the 
hobby-horse  until  the  jester,  who  provided  the  legs 
of  his  steed,  was  thoroughly  worn  out. 

The  Queen  of  May,  a  little  tired  of  lonely  state 
upon  her  throne,  cast  off  her  garlands  and  came 
down  to  join  in  the  dances,  to  the  distraction  of 
half  a  dozen  young  fellows  who  considered  they 
held  a  monopoly  on  her  hand. 

Merodach  and  Dolly,  side  by  side  upon  the  turf, 
watched  the  foot  races,  the  sack  races,  the  young 
girls  racing  for  a  new  smock.  The  Squire  and  the 
gentlemen  of  his  party  made  up  a  purse  for  an 
impromptu  wrestling  match :  young  folk  played 
Drop  Handkerchief,  and  Oats  and  Beans;  and  an 
ancient  in  a  round  frock,  pipe  in  one  hand,  mug  in 

218 


YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE     219 

t'other,  leaned  against  the  wall  of  a  booth,  shut  his 
eyes,  and  sang  folk  songs;  his  immediate  neigh- 
bors joining  lustily  in  the  refrains. 

All  day  long  the  sun  shone  and  the  breeze  kept 
one  from  growing  too  hot.  The  Squire,  reveling 
in  the  customs  of  his  forefathers,  smiled  largely 
upon  the  scene,  forgot  the  curious  incident  of 
the  young  man  in  rags,  and  was  completely  happy. 

But  Dorothy  did  not  forget.  She  sat  silent,  dis- 
trait, threading  daisies  into  a  chain,  replying 
absently  to  Merodach's  attempts  at  conversation; 
and  thinking  that  she  would  be  better  alone  for  a 
while  he  excused  himself,  crossed  to  one  of  the 
booths  and  ate  a  belated  dinner. 

The  girl  wound  her  flower-chain  about  her  neck, 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  knees  and  sat  brooding, 
unconscious  of  the  romping  children,  deaf  to  thf 
shouted  encouragement  of  the  ring  that  watched  th'e 
wrestlers;  and  not  until  a  flushed  gallant  dropped 
beside  her  did  she  look  up. 

"Fair  maid,"  simpered  Colin  Carmichael,  laying 
a  white  hand  on  his  tambour  vest.  "Behold  me  at 
your — hie! — your  feet,  an'  doocid  pretty  feet,  I'll 
swear,  in  spite  of  your — ahem! — clogs!"  He 
giggled;  an  engaging  if  rather  foolish  young  man, 
in  whom  there  seemed  nothing  to  fear. 

Dorothy  thought  it  wise  to  fall  in  with  his 
humor. 

"Fair  sir,"  said  she.  "Leave  me,  I  would  be 
alone." 

"Ah,  cruel  one!     You  stab  me  with  your  doocid 


220  MY  LADY  APRIL 

pretty  eyes!"  He  edged  nearer,  languishing. 
"Behold  me,  Colin  Carmichael,  at  your  doocid 
pretty  feet!" 

"Carmichael?"  echoed  Dorothy,  roused. 

"Carmichael.  Colin,  son  of  Robert  the  Devil. 
I'm  a  bit  of  a  devil  myself,  an't  I?" 

"  'Tis  evident,  sir,"  agreed  Dorothy.  "And 
the  young  lady  in  lilac  silk?  Is  she  your  sister?" 

"Julie?  Gad,  yes.  Bless  her  soft  heart.  D'ye 
recognize  the  family  likeness?" 

"She's  betrothed?"  suggested  the  girl,  ignoring 
an  arm  about  her  waist. 

"Lud,  what  do  I  know!  She's  half  a  dozen  gal- 
lants dangling.  Her  last  flame  is — hie! — Ralph 
C-carew,  doocid  good  fellow  but  woundily  ill 
dressed.  However" — he  squeezed  nearer — "we'll 
none  of  him.  What's  Ralph  Carew  to  us,  or  we 
to  Ralph  Carew?  Phutt!  less  than  nothing.  I'll 
kiss  you,  sweet  hedge-rose,  and  you'll  forget  Ralph 
C-carew  an'  all  his  works,  so — "  . 

Hot  breath  tainted  with  the  fumes  of  wine  smote 
upon  her  cheek.  She  scrambled  to  her  feet, 
tripped,  recovered,  and  was  off  apace,  pursued  by 
the  impressionable  Colin. 

Such  a  chase  was  merely  one  of  many  a  May  Day 
frolic:  none  dreamed  of  spoiling  sport,  but  laughed 
and  cheered  them  forward  with  hunting  cries  and 
deep-throated  guffaws.  The  flying  gypsy  girl  and 
the  galloping  gallant  caused  much  amusement;  but 
Dorothy  lost  her  head. 

It  would  have  been  easy  to  submit  to  a  kiss  and 


YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE     221 

escape,  if  she  had  not  begun  to  run.  Once  started, 
panic  seized  her  and  she  dare  not  stop.  Breath- 
less, frightened,  she  raced  across  the  green,  caught 
sight  of  the  fiddler  emerging  from  the  eating-booth, 
and  with  a  gasping,  "Merodach!  Save  me!" 
flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

Taken  utterly  by  surprise  Merodach  instinctively 
clutched  her,  kissed  her,  and  became  aware  that 
they  were  the  center  of  attraction. 

"What  the  plague!"  panted  Colin  Carmichael, 
catching  at  the  Parson  for  support.  "Wha — what 
did  she  call  him?  Merodach?" 

"Merodach?"  shouted  the  Squire,  the  Parson, 
Farmer  Butterwick  and  the  gentlemen  from  the 
Manor. 

"Merodach?     Gad  burn  my  soul!" 

"The  Champion?  Merodach?  Rabbit  me,  what 
a  wasted  day!" 

"Merodach?  Good  heaven,  sirs,  who  can  we 
match  him  with?" 

"  'Tis  Merodach,  riddling  for  a  parcel  of  clowns 
to  dance!  Oh,  butter  my  wig!" 

Circling  Dorothy  with  one  arm,  Merodach  found 
himself  pounded  upon  the  back,  shaken  by  the  hand, 
deafened  with  cheers,  apologies,  explanations.  Had 
they  known,  these  gentlemen  vociferated,  had  they 
dreamed  who  he  was  they'd  have  been  condemned 
'fore  they'd  have  allowed  him  to  riddle!  A  match! 
A  match !  Hal  the  wheelwright  was  a  glutton  for 
punishment,  he'd  be  good  for  dozen  rounds,  at  least. 
A  match — a  match! 


222  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Merodach  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "I've  a 
job  on  hand  that  bars  fighting,  sirs,"  said  he,  when 
the  hubbub  had  somewhat  subsided.  "When  I'm 
free,  mebbe  I  might  obleege  ye."  No  amount  of 
persuasion  could  move  him.  He  picked  up  his 
fiddle  and  turned  to  the  Squire.  "Ye'll  not  be 
needing  more  music  to-night,  sir?  Then  we'll  jog. 
My  wife's  tired." 

"Here,  wait  a  bit,  Merodach,"  cried  the  Squire, 
suddenly  diffident.  "  Tis  our  custom  to  give  the 
fiddler  tuppence  a  head,  but  demme,  we  can  hardly 
offer  you  that.  If  you'll  accept — " 

"Thank'ee,  Squire.  Tuppence  a  head  let  it  be. 
I've  done  no  more  for  you  than  old  Sam  would." 

The  Squire  beamed.  Here  was  a  man  after  his 
own  heart.  He  whipped  off  his  Kevenhuller  and 
held  it  out. 

"Tuppence  a  head,  lads,  for  the  fiddler.  Come, 
Carmichael — you've  had  your  money's  worth! 
Robin!  Doctor,  where's  yours?  Oh,  no  change 
given.  Ye'll  get  no  change  from  Merodach!  Tup- 
pence a  head.  Good  night  to  you,  Mrs.  Butterwick, 
ma-am.  I  shall  call  to-morrow  to  take  a  look  at  that 
ailing  ewe.  Good  night,  Tom.  Keep  away  from 
the  tavern,  you  rascal,  you've  had  all  you  can  carry. 
Good  night,  Betsy.  Is  it  three  times  you've  been 
church-called?  Then  come  up  to  the  Manor  and 
bring  your  Harry,  and  my  wife'll  see  what  she  can 
find  for  ye.  Good  night!  Good  night!" 

Coppers  clanked  into  the  hat  as  the  country  folk 


YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE     223 

trailed  past  with  bobs  and  pulled  forelocks:  until 
the  Squire  turned  and  emptied  his  load  upon  the 
ale-slopped  table  behind  him. 

"You'll  not  be  able  to  carry  this,"  said  he,  "I'll 
give  you  gold." 

"Thank'ee,  Squire.  I'll  take  a  crown,  and  will 
ye  send  the  rest  on't  to  old  Sam?  He'll  be  laid  up 
a  while."  Merodach  looked  down  into  the  kindly 
blue  eyes  beneath  their  scanty  brows,  and  smiled. 
"This'd  be  a  sad  loss  to  old  Sam,  sir.  And  I've — 
plenty.  Good  night,  and  good-by.  We'll  be  off 
again  to-morrow." 

The  Squire  shook  hands,  nodded  to  Dorothy, 
abruptly  turned  on  his  heel  and  shovelled  the  cop- 
pers into  his  capacious  pockets.  "Good-by,"  said 
he  gruffly.  "You're  a  damned  fine  fellow,  Mero- 
dach. If  ever  I  can  do  aught  for  you — there,  be 
off  wi'  ye!" 

The  chestnut  bordered  road  was  full  of  slowly 
sauntering  couples,  arm  in  arm,  hand  in  hand: 
children  lagged  wearily  behind  their  mothers : 
fathers  carried  sleepy  toddlers:  old  folk  hobbled 
bedward,  silent,  dim-eyed,  remembering  long-past 
May  Days  when  they  too  had  wandered  home  by 
way  of  Owl  Copse  and  the  kissing  gate. 

Merodach  slid  an  arm  about  Dorothy's  waist  and 
sauntered  with  the  rest,  thrilled  by  the  consciousness 
that  the  girl  leaned  against  him.  They  said  nothing, 
until  pausing  at  the  Butterwick's  gate  a  passing 
couple  called,  "Good  night!" 


224  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Good  night!"  returned  Merodach,  and  waited, 
swinging  back  the  green  wicket  as  Dorothy  passed 
him. 

A  deep  arch  of  yew  blotted  out  the  stars,  and 
stumbling  in  the  darkness  the  girl  caught  at  Mero- 
dach's  shoulder. 

In  an  instant  he  had  her  in  his  arms. 

Breathless,  tingling  from  head  to  foot,  Dorothy 
lay  dazed,  stunned  by  the  sudden  passion  of  his 
embrace.  Beside  the  gypsy's  kisses,  young  Carew's 
were  the  mere  awkward  pecks  of  a  diffident  lad. 
She  was  too  utterly  overwhelmed  to  repulse  him 
and  remained  motionless,  until  as  suddenly  as  he 
had  taken  her,  he  let  her  go. 

"Gad!"  he  whispered,  panting  a  little.  "I'm  a 
fool — I — faith,  child,  I  couldn't  help  it.  Forgive 
me—" 

She  could  not  have  spoken  to  save  her  life:  she 
passed  him,  a  hand  to  her  burning  face,  and  dis- 
appeared round  the  corner  of  the  house.  When 
after  a  moment  he  followed,  she  was  not  to  be  seen. 

Young  Carew  came  yawning  from  the  barn  and 
perched  upon  the  pump  trough,  kicking  his  heels. 

"Hallo,"  said  he.  "A  word  with  you,  Mero- 
dach. I'm  in  the  devil  of  a  hole." 

For  once  his  egotism  was  a  blessing. 

The  gypsy  sat  down  upon  a  hen-coop,  thankful 
that  the  twilight  hid  his  face,  and  that,  as  usual, 
Mr.  Carew  was  solely  concerned  with  himself. 

"At  your  service,  sir,"  says  he,  breathing  deep 


YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE    225 

to  check  his  galloping  heart.  Heavens!  he  had 
kissed  her  and  she  was  not  angry.  She  had  lain  pas- 
sive, unresisting,  almost  he  could  have  sworn  she 
responded — her  lips — 

"I'm  in  the  deuce  of  a  mess!"  moaned  young 
Carew. 

"Are  ye,  sir?  What's  the  trouble?  From  all 
I  saw  of  you  down  on  the  green  you  seemed  to  be 
making  the  most  of  your  time!"  Merodach 
laughed. 

"Oh,  devil  take  the  women!"  cried  Carew. 
"They're  for  ever  at  me.  I  seem  to  draw  'em  as 
a  honey-pot  draws  wasps.  'Tis  my  cursed  attrac- 
tiveness, Merodach.  You  can  thank  your  stars 
you  an't  alluring!" 

"O  lud,  I  do — I  do!"  said  the  gypsy  solemnly. 
*Who's  after  ye  now,  sir?  Was  it  the  young 
'ooman  in  the  laylock  gown?  A  neat  figure,  on 
my  soul!" 

"Faith,  I  should  name  no  names,  being  as  I  hope 
a  gentleman.  But  deuce  take  it,  I'm  at  my  wits' 
end,  and  'tis  not  as  though  you  were — that  is — 
demme,  'tis  Miss  Carmichael's  head  over  ears  in 
love  with  me.  I  met  her  in  Paris,  and  we — we 
saw  a  good  deal  of  each  other,  but  I  swear  I  never 
gave  her  the  least  encouragement — I  never  offered 
myself !  And  now  she  chooses  to  conduct  as  if  we 
were  affianced — upbraids  me  for  not  having  written 
— presents  me  to  her  uncle  with  all  the  airs  of  a 
wife — good  gad,  Merodach!  What  am  I  to  do?" 


226  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Mr.  Carmichael'll  be  her  brother?"  suggested 
Merodach,  chewing  a  grass  straw  to  keep  his  lips 
from  twitching  to  a  smile. 

"Lud,  yes.     But  what's  he—?" 

"A   woundily  fine   swordsman,   so   I've  heard." 

"Demme,  d'ye  think  he'll  call  me  out?"  quavered 
poor  Ralph. 

"What   other  course  has  he,   if  ye  jilt  Miss?" 

"But  I  tell  you  we're  not  betrothed!" 

"She'll  say  ye  are,  and  he'll  believe  her."  Mero- 
dach pushed  his  fingers  through  his  thick  hair. 
"Lord,  Lord !  what  a  plague  is  love !"  he  moralized, 
shaking  with  suppressed  merriment.  From  his  seat 
upon  the  empty  hen-coop  he  could  see  the  square 
window  of  the  loft  where  Dorothy  slept  above  the 
cow-house.  In  the  gloom  a  golden  head  shone  mis- 
tily like  a  full  moon  behind  thin  cloud.  She  could 
not  move  without  betraying  her  presence  to  young 
Carew,  and  it  was  certain  that  she  could  hear  every 
word. 

"Well?"  pleaded  Ralph.  "What  d'ye  think? 
What  would  you  do?" 

"Ecod,  I've  ne'er  been  plighted  to  two  females  at 
once." 

"I  tell  you  I'm  not!     I—" 

"You've  promised  to  wed  Miss  Forrest?" 

"Gad,  yes.     I  said  I  would,  spite  of  everything." 

"Did  she  accept  of  ye,  sir?" 

"Accept?  Demme,  wouldn't  she  jump  at  the 
chance?  Coming  from — " 


YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE     227 

"Well,  but  did  she?"  persisted  the  gypsy. 
"Look'ee,  Mr.  Carew,  this  is  a  serious  affair." 

"Oh,  an't  I  aware  of  that?" 

"Well,  see  now.  Here's  you — here's  the  two 
young  ladies.  You're  plighted  to  one  and  t'other 
claims  ye.  Ergo,  you'll  have  to  break  with  one  or 
t'other,  this  not  being  Turkey." 

"Oh,  od  rot  ye  for  a  fool!"  cried  the  lad,  his  voice 
catching  in  a  sob.  "Of  course  I  shall!  The  ques- 
tion is,  which  one?" 

"D'ye  love  'em  both,  sir?"  pondered  the  gypsy. 

"O  Lord!  I'm  damned  if  I  love  either!  I  wish 
'em  at  Jericho — scheming  hussies !  I'm  sick  o' 
women — I  wish  I  were  dead!  I  wish — " 

"O  come,  pluck  up  heart,  sir!  Things  are  never 
as  bad  as  they  might  be." 

"I'm  demmed  if  I  can  see  how  they  could  well 
be  worse!" 

"While  there's  life  there's  hope,"  said  Merodach. 
"If  I  were  you,  sir,  I'd  toss." 

"W-what?" 

"Toss,  sir.  Let  fate  decide.  Spin  a  coin. 
Heads,  Miss  Carmichael  gets  ye.  Tails,  Miss — " 

"Look  ye,  my  man.  I've  not  sunk  quite  so  low 
as  that !"  declared  Carew,  sliding  from  his  perch  and 
standing  rigid. 

"Oh,  no  offense,"  returned  Merodach  cheerfully. 
"You  asked  my  advice,  sir.  What  I  says  is — let  fate 
decide.  If  you  object,  well" — he  shrugged — "ye'll 
ha'  to  wriggle  out  o'  the  mess  another  way." 


228  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Lud,  what  odious  expressions  you  do  use,  to  be 
sure !"  Carew  turned,  dug  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
and  began  to  ramp  to  and  fro  in  the  restricted  space 
between  the  hen-coop  and  the  cow-house  wall,  unable 
to  go  farther  without  falling  over  Merodach's  long 
legs. 

"If  I  can  be  of  service  ye  can  count  on  me,"  said 
Merodach  heartily. 

"Thank'ee.  I  think  not.  But  gad!  I'd  forgot. 
Miss  Carmichael's  planned  a  picnic.  I've  had  to  per- 
mit her  to  send  a  groom  to  the  Goat  and  Compasses 
for  my  baggage :  he'll  be  back  to-morrow  night  and 
then  I  shall  be  constrained  to  stay  at  the  Manor  a  day 
or  two  and  ride  to  Ash  Holt  Grange  o'  Thursday, 
and  I—" 

"That'll  be  Sir  Valerius  Carew's  country  place, 
now  his  uncle's  dead?" 

"To  be  sure.  I  want  to  warn  the  servants  to  open 
the  house  and  light  fires  and  prepare  a  meal.  Er — 
being  in  a  way — host — I  feel  it  my  duty  to  arrange 
for  the  comfort  of  my  guests,  d'ye  see?" 

"Quite  so,  sir,"  agreed  Merodach.  "No  news  of 
the  missing  heir,  sir?" 

"None." 

"Warrant  still  out,  sir?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

Merodach  rose  slowly  to  his  lithe  height.  "Well, 
to  obleege  ye,  Mr.  Carew,  I'll  go  to  Ash  Holt  Grange 
and  tell  'em  you're  coming.  'Tis  but  a  couple  o'  mile 
out  of  our  road." 

"Your  road?" 


YOUNG  CAREW  SEEKS  ADVICE     229 

"To  Winterbourne,  sir.  Miss  Forrest's  eager  to 
be  at  her  cousin's." 

"Why,  I'd  thought  she'd  wait  for  me,"  said  young 
Carew.  "Mrs.  Butterwick'd  let  you  stay  on  here 
another  day  or  two.  I've  no  doubt  you  could  make 
yourself  useful.  You  can't  take  Miss  Forrest  on 
alone." 

"She'd  be  as  safe  with  me  as  with  you !"  retorted 
Merodach  heatedly. 

"I  tell  you  I'll  not  have  it!" 

"And  what  would  Miss  Carmichael  say  to  that  ?" 

"Oh,  damn  Miss  Carmichael!"  exclaimed  Ralph 
bitterly.  "Here  we  are  back  at  the  same  point  after 
all  this  discussion." 

"  Tis  the  way  of  discussions,  sir.  Like  toad- 
stools, they  grow  in  circles  and  'tis  waste  o'  time  to 
pick  'em.  Best  sleep  on  it,  sir.  I'll  start  for  Ash 
Holt  bright  an'  early,  so  ye  can  set  your  heart  at 
rest  on  that  count.  I'll  arrange  for  a  warm  recep- 
tion, never  fear!" 

Young  Carew  stared,  concluded  that  the  fellow 
meant  well,  and  lounged  dejectedly  toward  the  barn. 
"I'll  give  you  my  commands  in  the  morning,"  said 
he  over  his  shoulder. 

Merodach  waited  until  he  was  out  of  sight  and 
threw  a  pebble  into  the  loft. 

A  pale  face  lifted  above  the  window-sill. 

"You  heard,  child?" 

"I — I  couldn't  help  but  hear.  Why  didn't  you 
take  him  away?" 

"Trust  me,   'tis   all   for  the  best.     To-morrow, 


23o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

agree  to  everything  I  suggest.  I  have  a  plan. 
There's  a  way  out  o'  this  coil,  if  you'll  follow  me." 

She  nodded,  choking  back  her  tears,  gazing  down 
at  him  from  the  dusty  darkness  of  the  haymow. 
"I  promise.  Good  night." 

"Good  night."  Merodach  hesitated,  kicking  at  a 
stray  turnip. 

"You  want  to  tell  me — now?"  breathed  Miss 
Forrest,  leaning  out. 

"I — gad,  no,  child.  Wait  until  to-morrow." 
He  strode  rapidly  away;  but  the  girl  remained  at 
the  window,  her  cheek  against  the  gray,  weathered 
oak  of  the  frame,  her  lips  faintly  smiling. 

"Until  to-morrow?"  said  she,  and  caught  her 
breath  in  a  sigh.  "Merodach,  I  think  you've  told 
me — already." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  ROAD  TO  ASH  HOLT 

WITH  the  flat  feeling  that  inevitably  fol- 
lows festivity,  the  village  of  Hazel- 
hurst  set  about  its  tasks  next  morning. 
Rain  had  fallen  during  the  night  and  the  roads  were 
slippery  with  mud:  garlands  tossed  aside  and  for- 
gotten lay  withering  in  odd  corners :  the  very  May- 
pole wore  a  dejected  air,  as  though  it  were  unwill- 
ing to  stand  neglected  for  another  year. 

The  wattle  bowers  were  being  carried  away  as 
Merodach  and  Dorothy  crossed  the  green,  and  a 
couple  of  carters  nodded  and  stared  after  them, 
pausing  in  their  work  of  loading  the  hurdles  on  to 
a  wagon. 

"Merodach,"  grunted  one. 

"Ay,"  responded  the  other. 

"Squire  made  a  terrible  gurt  fuss  over  him, 
surely.  What's  he  done?"  queried  the  boy  at  the 
horse's  head. 

"Done?     Lumme,  not  to  know  Merodach!" 

"Nubbody  knowed  him  till  his  wife  squealed  out 
his  name,"  retorted  the  lad,  nettled. 

"What  I  mean  is,  heard  on  him.  He  be  a 
larmentable  sprackish  fighter,  Merodach.  Come  up 
on  top,  as  it  were,  all  on  a  sudden  like.  Never 
heard  tell  on  him  one  day,  an'  nexdy  'twere  all  over 

231 


232  MY  LADY  APRIL 

the  parish.  Doctor  were  norating  over  it  to  Mus 
Pagden,  as  how  Merodach  beat  his  trainer  Jack 
Broughton  an'  adunnamany  other  champions  within 
a  month.  That  were  a  year  ago,  mebbe.  Then, 
look'ee,  what's  he  do  but  disappear,  an'  naun  to  show 
where  he'd  gone.  Then,  ecod,  up  he  pops  some- 
wheres,  wins  a  match,  an'  disappears  agen,  like  to 
a  Punch  an'  Judy  show.  Fegs !  he's  a  fair  wonner ! 
We  can  count  oursel's  in  luck  to  ha'  set  eyes  on 
him.  'Tain't  many  as  can  say  that!" 

"Why,  don't  he  show  to  every  one?"  said  the  lad 
in  a  scared  whisper. 

"Show?" 

"Ay.     Mebbe  he's  a  farisee." 

The  carters  stared  at  one  another.  "What  the 
rabbits !  Mebbe  he  is !"  said  they. 

Silent  with  a  new  shyness,  Dorothy  followed  the 
gypsy  beneath  the  dripping  oaks  to  a  by-lane,  wind- 
ing capriciously  through  thickets  of  hazel  and  birch 
copses  to  a  stretch  of  heathery  common  and  so  to  the 
forest  that  clothes  the  country-side  about  Ash  Holt. 

She  could  not  have  analyzed  her  feelings:  a 
vague  unrest ;  a  longing  to  know  beyond  all  possible 
doubt;  a  dread  that  he  would  speak;  a  dread  that  he 
would  not;  wonder  at  herself,  and  bubbling  laughter 
when  she  thought  of  poor  Carew — all  these  and  a 
dozen  other  emotions  rioted  within  her  as  she 
trudged  ankle-deep  in  wet  leaves  and  sparkling 
grass,  carrying  her  bundle  on  her  hip. 

It  is  to  be  assumed  that  Merodach  was  in  much 
the  same  state  of  ferment.  He  strode  ahead  whis- 


THE  ROAD  TO  ASH  HOLT      233 

tling  spasmodically ;  twirling  a  ground  ash ;  pausing 
to  watch  the  antics  of  a  squirrel  or  a  pair  of  bicker- 
ing jays.  From  time  to  time  he  turned  to  glance  at 
the  girl,  and  went  on  without  a  word;  until  as  the 
forest  closed  about  them  he  came  to  a  sudden  halt 
and  stood,  breathing  quickly,  staring  down  at  her. 

The  bundle  dropped  from  Dorothy's  fingers  as 
their  eyes  met,  the  hot  blood  surged  into  her  face 
beneath  his  glance.  He  stepped  nearer  and  she  did 
not  move,  but  like  a  frightened  bird  remained  mo- 
tionless, palpitating. 

He  said  nothing,  but  took  her;  and  the  world 
swam  about  them  in  a  dizzy  silence. 

When  after  an  eternity  she  opened  her  eyes  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  brown  cheek  and  ruffled 
black  hair. 

"Merodach !"  she  murmured,  sighing  in  vast  con- 
tent, and  slid  both  arms  about  his  neck. 

After  another  eternity  she  looked  up  again;  and 
held  him  off  a  little ;  and  tried  to  laugh  and  sobbed 
instead : 

"Merodach—" 

"Child!"  he  whispered  shakily.  "You're  cry< 
ing!" 

"I'm  not — I  am!  Mayn't  I  cry  for  joy?  O 
lud,  Merodach — I'm  not  made  of  wood!" 

"Faith,  no,  dear  heart."  He  touched  her  ten- 
derly. "You're  all  sweet  curves.  Did  I  crush  you  ? 
I'm  mad,  I  think." 

"We're  both  mad,  hopelessly  lunatic.  And  I — 
I  like  it— " 


234  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Whereupon  there  was  no  more  to  be  said. 

They  went  on  after  a  time,  very  close  together. 

"You  called  me  'wife'  last  night,"  she  reminded 
him  shyly. 

"I  did!  'Twas  shameless  in  me,  but  I  wanted 
to  hear  how  it  sounded.  Wife!  A  tinker's  wife, 
as  Mr.  Carew  put  it." 

"Ah,  poor  Ralph!" 

"O  lud,  he'll  survive  it.  The  wretched  youth's 
half  crazed  with  terror.  'Apollo  flies  and  Daphne 
holds  the  chase.'  Miss  Carmichael  will  teach  him 
his  manage.  Look,  here's  a  throne  for  you,  Queen 
of  May.  They  should  have  crowned  you  yesterday, 
instead  of  that  little  red-head !" 

"She  was  pretty,"  said  Dorothy,  pausing  beside 
the  fallen  trunk  of  a  beech.  "La,  this  tree's 
soaking." 

"It  won't  soak  through  my  breeches,"  said  he, 
slipping  the  pack  from  his  back.  "Come !" 

They  lingered  there,  still  wrapped  up  in  the  mys- 
terious wonder  of  each  other;  still  groping  in  a 
world  that  was  a  little  unreal,  insecure,  liable  to 
melt  at  a  breath,  as  the  land  of  dream  melts  upon 
awakening  into  the  stable,  rather  dreary  world  of 
every  day. 

The  sun  broke  through  rapidly  thinning  clouds 
and  struck  down  into  the  heart  of  the  green  wood- 
land, turning  every  raindrop  to  a  twinkling  jewel; 
shining  through  translucent  beech  leaves;  caught 
and  imprisoned  in  Dorothy's  tumbled  hair. 


THE  ROAD  TO  ASH  HOLT      235 

Wood  sorrel,  growing  in  the  rotting  stump  of  the 
beech,  expanded  in  the  warmth,  opening  its  frail 
trefoil  leaves  to  the  sun.  The  girl  leaned  forward 
to  pluck  a  bit  and  nibbled  it,  gazing  dim-eyed  at 
nothing. 

Merodach  looked  at  her. 

"D'you  think  you  can  stand  it?"  he  asked  at 
length,  touching  her  slim  hands. 

"W-what?" 

"Tramping?" 

"I  can  try,"  said  she.  "But  later  on,  when  winter 
comes,  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a  little  house." 

"Nice?  Inadequate  woman!  'Twould  be  elys- 
ium.  But — " 

"Then  perhaps  one  of  those  black  tents,  or  a  cara- 
van," pondered  Dorothy.  "Anywhere — " 

"Well  ?"  he  teased  her  as  she  faltered. 

"Anywhere — with  you!"  She  relaxed,  obeying 
the  pressure  of  his  arm.  "I'm  a  headlong  creature, 
an't  I?  Vastly  imprudent!  I  eloped  with  Mr. 
Carew  the  second — the  third  time  ever  I  saw 
him." 

"My  parents  were  as  headlong,"  he  said.  "My 
father  was  but  two-and-twenty,  traveling  with  his 
tutor,  when  at  a  carnival  in  Madrid  he  picked  up 
a  rose  intended  for  another  man.  It  had  a  message 
on  a  strip  of  paper  round  the  stem.  He  gave  his 
tutor  the  slip,  followed  the  girl  who  had  thrown  the 
flower,  discovered  where  she  lived  and  kept  the  tryst 
that  night.  They  were  wed  next  day." 


236  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"La,"  sighed  Dorothy.  "How  deliciously  ro- 
mantic !" 

Merodach  grinned.  "The  tutor  didn't  find  it 
so!  He  was  half  out  of  his  mind,  and  fled  back  to 
England  and  took  a  living  in  the  wilds  of  York- 
shire to  escape  my  grandad's  wrath.  He'd  never 
have  got  another  pupil,  after  losing  one  in  that 
fashion!" 

"And  what  of  your  parents  ?" 

"Oh,  they  wandered  about  Spain.  My  mother 
hid  herself  from  pursuit.  There  was  a  wealthy 
old  rake  after  her,  whom  she  loathed,  and  'twas  to 
escape  marriage  with  him  that  she  flung  a  rose  to 
a  mask  at  the  carnival.  They  lived  as  gypsies 
live — wind- free.  I  was  born  in  a  ditch,  and  please 
God  I'll  die  in  one,  under  the  stars!" 

Instinctively  her  arms  tightened  about  his  neck. 
"I  don't  want  to  speak  of  death,"  she  whispered, 
and  hid  her  face.  "Tell  me  of  your  mother." 

Merodach  shook  his  head.  "Words  are  poor 
things.  She  was  the  merriest  creature.  I've  seen 
her  fall  into  a  stream  and  come  up  drenched,  and 
crawl  to  land  and  sit  laughing,  wringing  the 
water  from  her  clothes.  If  it  rained,  she  laughed. 
If  it  shone,  she  laughed.  If  the  wind  tore  at  her 
she  went  frantic  with  delight.  But — she  died 
when  I  was  twelve.  After  that  my  father  and  I 
wandered  half  over  Europe — the  sunny  half.  I 
know  France,  Spain,  Italy,  better  than  many  of 
the  natives  who  lived  out  their  days  in  one  village. 
Then  my  father  died,  and  wandering  seemed  to 


THE  ROAD  TO  ASH  HOLT      237 

lose  its  charm,  and  I  came  home  to  England — < 
lonely — "  He  stopped,  frowning  a  little. 

"And  then,  beloved?"  urged  the  girl,  and 
smoothed  out  the  wrinkle  between  his  eyes  with  a 
finger-tip. 

"The  rest  of  the  story  must  wait,"  he  said 
decisively.  "You  shall  know  it  all,  one  day. 
We  must  on  to  Ash  Holt,  and  remember,  you've 
promised  to  agree  to  everything  I  suggest." 

She  nodded.     "I  promised." 

"Even  if  it  seems  churlish  in  me,  even  if  you 
can't  understand?" 

"I  promise." 

"You'll  trust  me?" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears.  "I'll  try  to 
— I'll  do  as  you  say.  But  don't — don't  make  it 
too  hard  for  me,  Merodach." 

He  bent  his  head  to  kiss  her. 

They  ate  of  the  food  Mrs.  Butterwick  had  given 
them,  drank  from  a  chalk  stream  and  wandered 
on;  until  the  red-brown  walls  of  Ash  Holt 
Grange  appeared,  and  Merodach  halted,  a  delay- 
ing hand  upon  her  arm. 

"Here  we  part.  Faith,  child,  only  for  half  an 
hour.  I  must  go  tell  the  servants  of  the  impend- 
ing descent  of  Ralph  and  his  guests.  There's  a 
summer-house  somewhere  near,  where  you  can 
wait." 

"You   know   the  place?"   cried  she,   bewildered. 

"I  have  been  here  before.  The  butler's  an  old 
friend  of  mine."  He  lifted  her  to  the  top  of  the 


23 8  MY  LADY  APRIL 

wall,  threw  the  bundles  over  and  climbed  after, 
dropping  to  mossed  turf  beneath  a  great  chestnut, 
alight  with  its  candles  of  spiked  bloom. 

Radiant,  laughing,  she  slid  out  of  his  arms,  and 
he  led  her  across  the  park  to  a  thatched  arbor  on 
the  borders  of  a  pool. 

Here  he  left  her,  and  went  through  rose  garden 
and  pleached  alley  to  the  kitchen  gardens,  and  so 
to  the  stable-yard  where,  ramping  behind  bars,  a 
dozen  couple  of  hounds  belled  a  welcome,  sterns 
waving,  brown  eyes  wistful  for  caresses. 

"Now  then!"  shouted  a  groom,  emerging  from 
the  coach-house,  cloth  in  one  hand,  a  bridle  half 
polished  dangling  from  the  other.  "Now  then,  take 
yerself  out  o'  this !" 

"Is  Mr.  Marsh  within?"  asked  Merodach. 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"Go  tell  him  a  gypsy  wants  to  see  him." 

"I'll  be  shot  if  I  do!"  cried  the  lad,  and  swung 
about  as  a  man  came  out  of  the  back  porch  and 
stood  blinking  in  the  sunshine. 

"What's  all  this?"  said  he.  "Ecod,  I've  been 
looking  for  you.  Come  your  ways  in.  Mike,  go 
trot  into  the  harness  room,  my  lad,  an'  get  the  rust 
off  that  bridle,  'less  you  want  your  nose  rubbed 
on't!  'Tis  in  a  shockin'  state!" 

Dumb  with  disgust,  the  young  groom  stared  at 
the  speckless  bridle,  scratched  his  head,  stared  at 
the  gypsy,  stared  at  the  butler,  and  retired, 
growling. 


THE  ROAD  TO  ASH  HOLT      239 

Merodach  followed  the  old  fellow  into  the 
buttery. 

"Well,  Marsh,"  said  he,  "how  fares  it  with  you? 
Sit  down,  man,  and  let  me  have  all  the  news." 

Coughing  apologetically,  Marsh  subsided  on  to  a 
bench,  and  told  his  tale. 

This  one  was  dismissed  for  laziness ;  this  one  was 
put  into  his  place.  One  of  the  maids  had  lately 
wed  a  carter.  Such  and  such  a  horse  was  lame. 
These  fields  were  down  for  pasture,  these  were 
sown.  So  many  lambs;  so  many  pups;  five  young 
calves  and  half  a  hundred  chicks  and  ducklings. 

"Everything  flourishes?"  said  Merodach  com- 
fortably. "  'Tis  very  well.  Mr.  Ralph  sent  me 
to  warn  you  that  'tis  his  intent  to  come  to-morrow 
with  ten  or  a  dozen  guests.  Rooms  are  to  be 
opened,  fires  lit,  meals  prepared.  He  wishes  to 
impress  a  certain  young  lady  with  his — er — heri- 
tage. Gad,  Joseph,  you'll  do  yourself  a  hurt  if 
you  laugh  so!" 

''Heritage?  Damme!"  The  butler  wiped  merry 
eyes,  choking,  spluttering,  lying  back  against  the 
wall  to  hold  his  sides. 

Merodach  prodded  him  with  an  impressive  fore- 
finger. 

"You'll  treat  Mr.  Ralph  as  though  he  were 
already  your  master.  Understand  that  Mr.  Valerius 
still  hides.  Mr.  Ralph  confidently  expects  never  to 
see  him  more,  and  will  conduct  according.  Why — 
what's  that?" 


24o  MY  LADY  APRIL 

A  bell  rang  somewhere  in  the  house  above  them. 
The  butler's  face  regained  its  normal  serenity. 

"Ecod,"  said  he.  "I'd  forgot.  'Tis  a  Mr. 
Cavanagh  come  a-seeking  ye.  It  seems  he  has 
news,  though  what  it  is  I  can't  discover.  He 
arrived  last  night,  all  of  a  lather  with  impatience, 
and  could  hardly  wait  till  I'd  got  into  my  breeches 
to  let  him  in.  Had  you  come,  had  I  heard  from 
you,  had  I  this  and  had  I  t'other,  until  blest  if  I 
knew  whether  I  stood  on  my  head  or  my  heels.  A 
most  hurryful  gent,  on  my  soul!" 

"Let  be,"  said  the  gypsy,  rising.  "I'll  go  to  him. 
Which  room,  Joseph?" 

"The  oak  parlor,  sir,"  responded  Marsh.  "Will 
ye  dine?" 

"Faith,  yes.  Later,  when  I've  seen  Cavanagh." 
Merodach  swung  off  to  the  oak  parlor,  and  enter- 
ing, found  the  Irishman  at  ease,  his  chair  tilted  on 
to  its  back  legs,  his  feet  propped  against  the 
chimney-breast,  basking  in  the  warmth  of  a  wood 
fire  with  his  wig  upon  the  table. 

"Oh,"  says  he  without  looking  round.  "And 
hasn't  that  lazy  rascal  Merodach  arrived  yet, 
Marsh?" 

"Apparently,"  returned  Merodach,  coming  for- 
ward, utterly  unprepared  for  the  wild  yell  with 
which  Cavanagh  leapt  to  his  feet.  The  chair 
crashed  over  backward,  but  Merodach  caught  it 
before  it  reached  the  floor. 

"Good  ged — damned  neat!"  cried  Larry,  tugging 
at  something  in  his  coat  pocket.  "What  d'ye  think  ? 


THE  ROAD  TO  ASH  HOLT      241 

Carew's  cleared!"  He  slapped  a  folded  paper  on 
to  the  table  and  laughed  triumphantly. 

Merodach  shot  a  glance  at  him,  bent  forward  and 
picked  up  the  documenct  f* Janet  Robinson,  her 
mark?"  said  he,  staring  at  the  signature.  "What 
the  deuce  is  this?" 

"Read!"  cried  Cavanagh,  capering.     "Read!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ASH  HOLT  GRANGE 

ALONE  in  the  thatched  arbor  Dorothy 
waited,  watching  swallows  skimming  the 
surface  of  the  pond,  flycatchers  feeding  as 
they  hovered,  blue  tits  building  in  a  flowery  bush, 
thrushes  patrolling  a  patch  of  turf  for  the  unwary 
worm.  Relaxing,  she  curled  up  on  the  seat,  laid  her 
head  on  her  bundle  and  drifted  into  slumber,  dream- 
ing that  she  was  the  Princess  Beauty  and  that  Mero- 
dach  was  the  Beast,  imploring  her  to  wed  him.  A 
shadow  fell  across  the  doorway,  and  she  awoke  to 
find  Larry  Cavanagh  bending  over  her. 

"Merodach  sent  me,"  said  he.  "I'm  to  be  taken' 
ye  up  to  the  house." 

Amazed,  she  stared  at  him. 

"You  find  it  strange  to  see  me  here?"  he  added, 
and  stooped  to  lift  the  baggage. 

"I — yes,  I  hardly  expected  it."  She  rose,  smiling 
a  little  uncertainly.  "Merodach — ?" 

"Faith,  Merodach's  had  news  that'll  keep  him 
busy  for  a  day  or  two.  The  butler  and  his  wife 
and  myself  will  be  lookin'  after  ye.  This  way — 

He  led  her  through  the  gardens;  along  the 
pleasance,  divided  into  square  closes  where  the  pink 

242 


ASH  HOLT  GRANGE  243 

of  apple  blossoms  shone  above  the  clipped  yew 
hedges;  up  to  the  terraced  walk,  gay  with  nodding 
daffodils  and  early  gillyflowers;  and  so  to  the  great 
porch,  where  Marsh  and  the  gray-haired  woman 
waited  at  the  head  of  the  steps  to  welcome  her. 

"Miss  Forrest'll  be  wishful  to  see  her  room," 
suggested  Cavanagh,  depositing  his  load  upon  a 
seat  in  the  hall.  "Follow  Mrs.  Marsh,  me  dear. 
Sure,  'tis  a  big  house,  but  if  ye  get  lost  ye  can  yell!" 

The  butler  took  her  valise,  Mrs.  Marsh,  scanda- 
lized but  calm,  carried  the  bundles;  and  the  girl 
moved  as  in  a  dream  up  the  wide  oak  staircase  with 
its  carved  balustrade  and  leisurely,  shallow  steps, 
to  the  branching  gallery  above. 

"The  west  wing,  ma'am,"  says  Mrs.  Marsh,  turn- 
ing down  a  corridor.  "Here  Sir  Julian  would  have 
lodged  his  lady,  had  he  married.  'Tis  years  since 
he  was  here,  preferring  town,  ma'am,  and  the  Bath. 
Mr.  Valerius,  being  heir,  had  the  run  of  the  place. 
He  uses  these  rooms  when  he's  here,  which  ain't 
often,  ma'am,  an'  when  he  does  come  he's  that  soli- 
tary he  might  a'most  as  well  be  an  eremite,  shutting 
hisself  up  an'  seeing  no  one  but  Marsh.  They  say 
he  hates  all  women  since  his  mother  died.  No,  she 
were  never  here,  ma'am.  Old  Sir  Antony  refused 
to  meet  her,  and  Mr.  Raymond  being  a  proud  man 
an'  desp'rate  hot-blooded,  he  refused  to  come  with- 
out her.  And  so  his  father  never  saw  him  again, 
ma'am.  Not  since  he  married."  She  opened  a  door 
and  stepped  aside  for  Dorothy  to  enter.  "The 
boudoir,  ma'am.  The  bedchamber  lies  yonder.  I 


244  MY  LADY  APRIL 

trust  you'll  be  comfortable,  ma'am.  There's  the  bell 
rope.  I'll  bring  some  bow-pots.  Mebbe  ye'll  like 
to  fill  'em  with  flowers  yourself?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  murmured  Dorothy,  lost  in 
wonder,  recognizing  Merodach's  thought  behind  the 
housekeeper's  words. 

Alone  in  the  big  room  she  wandered  from  hearth 
to  window,  from  window  to  settee,  her  eyes  roving 
for  some  token,  some  message. 

She  found  nothing  in  the  boudoir,  but  in  the 
bedroom  a  tiny  bunch  of  sweet  violets,  still  wet  with 
rain,  lay  on  her  dressing-table.  She  set  them  in 
water  and  unpacked,  shaking  out  her  creased  cloth- 
ing, smoothing  muslins,  hanging  a  flowered  gown 
before  the  fire. 

An  hour  later,  Mr.  Cavanagh,  feigning  to  read 
in  the  hall,  became  aware  that  a  lady  descended; 
and  rose,  book  in  hand,  bowing  to  the  skins  that 
strewed  the  polished  floor. 

"Good  ged,"  he  declared,  laughing.  "I  protest, 
ma'am,  I  didn't  know  you !" 

Dorothy  smiled  and  spread  her  skirts,  preening 
herself,  demurely  content  to  be  clad  daintily  once 
more.  "There  was  no  need  to  go  in  rags,  was 
there?  Merodach — wouldn't  mind?" 

"Mind?     Good  ged,  not  if  he  could  see  you!" 

"And  have  you  permission  to  show  me  the  house 
and  gardens?" 

"The  whole  blessed  Ark-load!" 

"Ark?" 

"Oh,  'tis  a  farm  we  inhabit,  me  dear!     Cows, 


ASH  HOLT  GRANGE  245 

sheep,  ducks,  geese,  foxhounds,  horses,  dogs — well 
now,  an'  will  ye  look  at  that?" 

A  grave  setter  walked  sedately  in,  gazed  inquir- 
ingly from  Cavanagh  to  Dorothy,  and  slowly  waved 
a  plumy  flag. 

"Dear  boy !"  said  she,  holding  out  her  hand. 

He  came,  sniffed,  regarded  her  with  liquid  eyes 
and  laid  his  beautiful  head  upon  her  knee.  Dorothy 
took  his  face  between  her  hands,  smoothed  the  silky 
hair,  kissed  him,  and  from  that  moment  he  never 
left  her.  While  they  dined  he  lay  beside  her  chair : 
when  they  walked  he  paced  at  her  side,  pausing 
tolerantly  to  give  her  time  to  admire  the  broods  of 
chickens ;  the  lambs  in  the  flowery  orchard ;  the  fox- 
hounds, indignant  and  jealous,  pawing  at  their 
bars. 

She  seemed  content  to  wander  about  the  gardens 
with  Cavanagh,  and  if  she  ached  to  ask  a  thousand 
questions,  she  did  not  show  it. 

The  Irishman  was  evidently  laboring  under 
some  concealed  emotion.  At  times  he  laughed  for 
no  apparent  reason.  At  times  he  gave  absurd 
replies  to  her  most  innocent  remarks,  and  when  she 
looked  amazed,  confessed  that  he  did  not  know 
what  he  had  said. 

At  ten  she  took  her  candle,  went  above-stairs,  fol- 
lowed by  the  setter,  and  coming  into  her  boudoir 
beheld  Merodach,  cross-legged  before  the  hearth. 

"You?"  she  cried.  "They  told  me  you  had 
gone!" 

"They  believed  it,"  he  said,  fondling  the  ecstatic 


246  MY  LADY  APRIL 

dog.  "Down,  Ranger,  down!  Mrs.  Marsh  saw  to 
your  comfort,  child?" 

She  made  a  little  gesture  toward  the  glowing  fire, 
the  flowers  that  stood  in  bowls  about  the  place; 
and  smiled. 

"I  came  back  because  I  remembered  that  you'd 
vowed  not  to  sleep  in  a  house  until  you  reached 
Winterbourne."  He  put  the  leaping  setter  aside 
and  went  to  Dorothy.  "Vows,  even  foolish  vows, 
are  not  to  be  lightly  broke,  sweetheart."  He  bent 
to  kiss  her  fingers  as  she  hesitated.  "Remember, 
you  promised." 

"I  promised.  What  am  I  to  do?"  she  said 
simply. 

"Go  dress  in  your  gypsy  things,  and  bring  a 
shawl  and  a  blanket  from  your  bed." 

She  went  obediently  as  a  child;  returned,  and  he 
led  her  from  the  boudoir  to  a  tiny  chamber  in  the 
wall,  opening  on  a  stair:  the  night  closed,  cool  and 
fresh  about  them  as  they  came  out  into  the  gardens, 
Ranger  close  at  their  heels. 

"I've  made  a  nest  for  you,"  said  Merodach 
presently,  coming  to  a  halt  in  one  of  the  square 
closes  of  the  ancient  pleasance,  where  walled  about 
with  thick  yew  hedges  a  lawn  lay  shadowed  by  a 
gnarled  apple  tree.  He  knelt  to  arrange  a  bed  of 
dried  fern,  covered  with  a  couple  of  carriage  rugs. 

"Ranger'll  stay  with  you,"  he  added,  tucking  her 
in. 

She  looked  up.     "And  you?" 

"I  shall  be— within  call." 


ASH  HOLT  GRANGE  247 

"I  had  rather  you  were — within  reach,"  she 
whispered. 

"Had  you?  Are  you  nervous?  You've  slept 
out  before." 

"Only  once,  and  then — you  were  on  the  other 
side  o'  the  fire,"  she  reminded  him,  and  slid  her 
hands  behind  his  head  to  draw  it  lower.  "The 
night's  so — so  very  big,  Merodach." 

Silent,  awed  by  her  faith  in  him,  he  fetched  his 
bed  from  the  next  close  and  settled  down  so  that 
at  arm's  length  their  hands  could  touch. 

Above  them  the  stars  shone  pale  in  the  deeps  of 
the  sky.  A  nightingale,  shyly,  as  though  he  knew 
the  time  was  not  yet  come,  was  trying  one  note 
after  another,  practicing  the  love  song  he  would  sing 
as  May  blossomed  into  June. 

Ranger  scratched  loose  some  fern,  circled  twice, 
curled  up,  and  slept  between  them  until  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
"T'OTHER  DEAR  CHARMER" 

MRS.    MARSH,    appearing    with    a    tray 
of   chocolate   and   buttered   rolls,    found 
Dorothy  flushed  and  dewy-eyed,  huddling 
into  her  cold  bed.     She  drew  the  curtains,  remark- 
ing that  it  had  been  a  fine  night. 

Dorothy  supposed  so. 

"Mr.  Ralph  is  to  ride  over  with  a  party,"  said  the 
housekeeper,  letting  spring  sunshine  flood  the  room. 
"But  Marsh'll  not  show  'em  this  wing.  If  you 
keep  this  side  o'  the  house,  ma'am,  you'll  not  be  dis- 
turbed." 

Sipping  hot  chocolate,  Dorothy  nodded,  wonder- 
ing what  Mrs.  Marsh  thought  of  her  presence  there. 

"Marsh  has  his  orders,"  said  the  old  woman, 
folding  her  hands  beneath  her  elbows  and  con- 
templating Dorothy  from  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
"Dear  knows  what  they  be,  he's  as  mum  as  a  tad- 
pole! But  being  Mr.  Raymond's  body-servant 
afore  Mr.  Valerius  were  born,  an'  after  he  grew  up, 
his  man,  'tis  but  natural  he  should  cling  to  the 
family.  We  were  wed  late  in  life,  ma'am.  We've 
no  children,  so  I  mother  Joseph.  He's  nought  but 
a  child — some  men  never  do  grow  up — an'  a  child 
with  a  secret,  well,  there's  no  holding  'em!" 

248 


"T'OTHER  DEAR  CHARMER"     249 

"A  secret?"  echoed  Dorothy,  not  liking  to  snub 
the  good  woman,  and  yet  fearful  of  prying.  "Has 
he  a  secret?" 

"La,  yes,  ma'am.  For  years  an'  years  he's  been 
a-hidin'  something,  ever  since  Mr.  Valerius  come 
home  from  furren  parts.  Dear  knows  what  it  is, 
an'  I  can't  find  out.  It  gets  on  my  nerves  a  bit, 
ma'am,  but  I  don't  complain.  Marsh  is  a  good 
husband,  as  husbands  go.  And  I  thank  heaven 
there  ain't  no  one  to  be  jealous  of !" 

The  idea  of  suspecting  Marsh  guilty  of  even  the 
mildest  flirtation  was  too  much  for  Miss  Forrest, 
and  she  collapsed  gurgling  in  the  depths  of  her  pil- 
lows. 

Resigned  to  the  eccentricities  of  quality,  Mrs. 
Marsh  collected  the  chocolate  service  and  padded 
out.  Dorothy  lingered  over  a  luxurious  toilet:  it 
was  a  change  to  use  fine  towels  and  dainty  china 
after  kneeling  on  the  damp  turf  beside  a  brook. 

Toward  noon  a  cavalcade  appeared,  tittuping 
along  the  chestnut  drive:  young  Carew,  debonair, 
clad  in  his  best  and  mounted  on  the  Squire's  pet 
hunter,  Ladybird:  Miss  Carmichael,  swaying  on 
her  mare  like  a  titmouse  on  a  twig:  the  Squire, 
jogging  on  his  piebald,  Marigold ;  Robin,  and  Lucy 
Hazelhurst  attended  by  three  adoring  gallants. 

They  trotted  up  and  dismounted  at  the  porch 
where  Marsh  awaited  them,  and  a  stable-lad  came 
forward  to  take  the  horses. 

"Ah,  Marsh,"  says  Ralph,  handing  Miss  Car- 


250  MY  LADY  APRIL 

michael  up  the  steps.  "How  are  ye?  Wife  and 
family  well?  We  must  have  a  talk  before  I  leave, 
and  I'll  cast  a  glance  over  your  books." 

"Thank  ye,  Mr.  Ralph,"  returned  the  old  servant 
sedately.  "Will  you  dine  now,  or  see  the  house 
first?" 

Ralph  consulted  Miss  Carmichael. 

"Oh,  the  gardens!"  cried  she.  Let's  explore  the 
gardens.  'Tis  too  early  yet  for  dinner,  and  we  can 
see  the  house  later." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  Marsh,  and  hurried  in- 
doors. 

The  Squire  watched  in  some  disgust  as  Carew 
and  the  other  young  men  vanished  down  the  terrace 
in  the  wake  of  fluttering  habits:  and  with  a  bridle 
in  each  hand,  led  his  favorites  to  the  stable-yard, 
discoursing  meanwhile  on  the  heinous  practice  of 
leaving  the  care  of  one's  horse  to  hirelings. 

Following  with  his  dapplegray  and  Lucy's  roan, 
Robin  listened  respectfully,  although  he  knew  the 
little  homily  by  heart. 

"One  day  your  life  may  depend  upon  your  steed," 
cries  the  Squire,  unsaddling  briskly.  "(Boy,  get 
me  a  handful  of  hay.  Steady,  Marigold,  you 
demmed  kitten !)  If  you  an't  able  to  call  your  horse 
to  hand — (whoa,  there!) — to  hand,  I  say,  and 
mount,  d'ye  see,  Robin?  gad,  you  may  be  left 
wounded  on  the  field — " 

"And  lose  the  fox,  sir,"  added  the  boy  mischiev- 
ously. 

"Fox?  Demme,  sir,  the  field  of  battle!  Who's 
talking  of  hunting?  Now  train  your  animal  to 


"T'OTHER  DEAR  CHARMER"     251 

stand,  to  answer  to  his  name — (hold  up,  Marigold, 
what  the  devil  ails  the  beast?) — and  where,  I  say, 
where  are  you — er — there  you  are!" 

"There  indeed,  sir!"  agreed  Robin  dutifully. 

They  saw  their  horses  watered  and  fed,  and  satis- 
fied that  they  were  comfortable,  wandered  from  the 
stable  to  kennels  and  so  on  to  the  gardens;  where 
they  discovered  Lucy  enthroned  upon  a  seat,  miracu- 
lously contriving  to  keep  her  three  adorers  in  ami- 
able converse  with  each  other. 

"Hallo?'  said  her  father,  coming  up.  "Where's 
Julie?" 

"La,  sir.  Mr.  Carew  carried  her  off  to  see  a  fish 
pond,  I  believe." 

"Sacred  to  the  memory  of  his  youth,"  added 
Colin. 

"He  fished?"  said  the  Squire,  interested  at  once. 

"Lud,  no,  sir !     He  fell  in." 

Miss  Hazelhurst  rose  and  gathered  up  her  trailing 
habit.  "Mr.  Carmichael,  have  you  my  whip?  My 
gloves?  Oh,  Mr.  Wallace  has  them.  Shall  we 
walk  ?  There  are  buds  in  the  rose  garden  as  big  as 
filberts,  father.  Come  see." 

Strolling  down  the  shady  pleasance  young  Carew 
had  leisure  to  observe  Miss  Carmichael's  ear;  the 
curls  that  escaped  from  beneath  her  beaver ;  and  the 
slim  neck,  rising  white  above  her  laced  cravat.  She 
resolutely  kept  her  shoulder  to  him. 

"Lud,  I  believe  you've  not  forgiven  me  yet,  Julie," 
said  he,  aggrieved. 

"For  which  fault,  sir  ?     For  neglecting  me  shame- 


252  MY  LADY  APRIL 

lessly?  For  not  writing?  Or  for  refusing  to  dis- 
close the  reason  of  your  intriguing  pilgrimage  in 
rags?" 

"I've  explained  that  was  a  secret,"  expostulated 
Ralph.  "Julie,  don't  spoil  my  day  by  being  cruel." 

"  'Tis  news  that  cruelty  of  mine  can  hurt  you,  sir !" 

"I'm  devilish  miserable !"  said  he,  and  in  truth  he 
thought  he  was. 

She  turned  large  eyes  upon  him  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  sleeve.  "Poor  lad,  did  I  plague  you  ?  Well, 
for  this  one  day,  I'll  be  kind,  nay  more !  I'll  be  in- 
discreet. You  shall  imagine  me  your  wife,  and 
show  me  all  our  domain.  We  are  but  just  home 
from  our  honeymoon,  Ralph,  and  I — lud,  sir !  Don't 
impose  on  my  generosity!  I  gave  you  my  hand!" 

He  took  her  waist.  "If  you'll  wed  me,  Julie,  I 
swear  I'll— " 

"O  la,  sir,  we  are  wed — a  full  month!" 

"Gad,  I'm  in  earnest !" 

She  pouted.  "You  ask  too  much,  i' faith.  I 
give  you  a  day  and  you  demand  a  life-time.  Lud, 
sir,  can't  you  play?" 

"No!     I'm  damned  if  I  will!" 

"Then  if  you  won't,  baby,  go  sulk  by  yourself!" 
She  laughed  and  fled,  impeded  by  her  habit,  intend- 
ing him  to  overtake  her. 

He  caught  her  just  within  the  entrance  to  an 
apple-shaded  close:  caught  her,  kissed  her,  and  be- 
came aware  of  Miss  Forrest,  wide-eyed  upon  a  heap 
of  dead  fern. 


"T'OTHER  DEAR  CHARMER"     253 

She  rose,  outraged  dignity  personified;  a  book  of 
verse  in  one  hand,  the  other  restraining  a  growling 
setter. 

"Ralph!"  said  she,  coached  to  her  part  by  Mero- 
dach  before  they  parted  in  the  dawn. 

"Good  gad — Dolly!"  gasped  young  Carew,  and 
dropped  Miss  Carmichael  as  she  had  been  a  hot  coal. 

"Explain  your  conduct,  sir,"  says  Miss  Forrest, 
biting  twitching  lips. 

"  'Dolly'?"  cried  Miss  Carmichael  in  the  same 
breath.  "What's  this,  Ralph?  Tis  the  peddler 
wench!" 

Between  the  cross-fire  of  their  eyes  poor  Carew 
stood  stammering;  scarlet  to  the  ears;  leaving  a 
dozen  sentences  half  spoken;  wishing  the  green  earth 
would  yawn  and  swallow  him  up. 

"Lud,  the  creature's  stricken  dumb,"  said  Miss 
Carmichael,  when  at  length  he  fell  silent  and  turned 
to  Dorothy.  "Perhaps  you'll  be  good  enough  to  en- 
lighten me,  ma'am?" 

"With  pleasure,  ma'am,"  replied  Miss  Forrest. 
"Mr.  Carew  eloped  with  me  less  than  a  week  ago, 
but  meeting  with  you  at  Hazelhurst  he  sends  me  on 
here  to  await  his  leisure."  Her  cool  voice  carried 
conviction  to  the  flaming  Julie. 

"Are  you  wed,  ma'am?"  she  asked,  utterly  ignor- 
ing the  miserable  Ralph. 

"No,  ma'am.  Mr.  Carew  promised  to  carry  me 
to  Sussex,  and  the  wedding  was  to  take  place  from 
my  cousin's,  Jillian  Tyrell  of  Winterbourne  Chase. 
You  may  have  heard  of  her." 


254  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Tyrell  ?     I  thought  you—" 

"O  la,  'twas  but  a  disguise,"  said  Dorothy, 
shrugging. 

Miss  Carmichael  looked  at  Carevv,  but  there  was 
no  need  of  affirmation  other  than  his  scarlet  face. 
"O  Ralph,  how  have  you  deceived  me!"  said  she, 
smothering  a  desire  to  shriek  with  laughter. 
"Ma'am,  I  give  you  my  word  he  offered  marriage, 
swore  a  hundred  tender  vows,  plagued  me  to  death — 
well!  I  believe  you  must  have  seen  him  kiss  me, 
but  now?" 

"I  did,  ma'am,"  responded  Dolly,  divining  with 
feminine  intuition  what  the  other  girl  would  be  at. 
"That  is,  I  believe  he  calls  it  kissing.  'Tis  mon- 
strous like  a  boy  at  bob-apple!"  She  glanced  de- 
murely at  the  writhing  Ralph. 

"O  ma'am,  how  can  we  punish  him?"  cried  Julie, 
running  to  Dorothy  and  catching  her  hands.  "  'Tis 
the  most  false-hearted  knave,  the  most  perfid- 
ious popinjay!  Trust  me,  he  needs  a  lesson!" 

"Lud,  we  can  wed  another!"  suggested  Dolly. 
"Two  others,  ma'am!" 

Their  dancing  eyes  met  and  they  broke  into  peals 
of  merry  laughter,  while  Carew,  feeling  like  a 
drowning  man  who  suddenly  touches  solid  ground, 
lifted  his  shamed  head  to  stare,  unable  to  believe 
that  he  was  free. 

"Sir!"  Dolly  curtsied  to  the  petal-strewn  turf, 
gurgling  with  laughter.  "I  have  the  honor  to  re- 
fuse your  hand.  Your  heart,  I  think,  was  never 
in  question!" 


"T'OTHER  DEAR  CHARMER"     255 

"Sir !"  giggled  Julie,  recovering.  "I  grieve  to  de- 
cline your  honorable  proposal.  Doubtless  time 
alone  will  heal  your  shattered  heart.  Come,  dear, 
let  us  leave  him  for  five  minutes!" 

Arm  in  arm  they  swept  out  through  the  arch  of 
yew,  flushed  faces  turned  in  dainty  malice  to  catch 
a  last  glimpse  of  their  rejected  cavalier.  Their 
laughter  floated  back  to  him  over  the  hedge, 
mingled  with  a  scrap  of  song : 

"How  happy  could  I  be  with  either, 
Were  t'other  dear  charmer  away — " 

Young  Carew  picked  up  his  hat,  shook  a  fallen 
petal  out  of  the  crown  and  glanced  upward  into  the 
flowering  apple  tree. 

"Good  gad!"  said  he  piously,  and  mopped  his 
brow. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN   THE   WEST   WING 

FROM  the  depths  of  depression  Ralph  swung 
naturally  enough  to  the  other  extreme.  If 
by  no  exertions  of  his  own  he  was  out  of  the 
wood,  still  he  was  out.  He  hallooed,  mentally  he 
slapped  himself  upon  the  back.  He  was  a  mon- 
strous clever  fellow.  Gad,  'twas  good  to  be  alive, 
and  young.  But  he  would  have  a  care  how  he  con- 
ducted with  women  in  future.  Sly  creatures,  for 
ever  making  long  eyes  at  men,  and  yet — who  could 
blame  'em,  after  all ! 

He  clapped  on  his  hat,  settled  his  cravat,  shot  his 
ruffles,  and  marching  out  of  the  close  came  face  to 
face  with  Cavanagh. 

"What  the  deuce!"  exclaimed  young  Carew,  re- 
coiling. 

Larry  grinned.  "Faith,  'tis  not  a  pretty  welcome 
at  all,  but  sure,  I  startled  ye.  You've  seen  Miss 
Forrest?" 

"I  have,"  returned  Carew,  and  in  spite  of  himself 
his  ears  began  to  burn  afresh. 

The  Irishman  grew  rigid.  "In  the  position  I 
hold  as  friend  o'  the  family — what  there  is  left 
on't ! — an'  her  father  bein'  abroad  the  way  he  can't 

256 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  257 

look  after  her,  I've  a  notion  I  should  call  ye  out," 
said  he  grimly. 

"Zoons!  She's  formally  refused  me!"  cried 
Ralph. 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes,  faith!     But  now." 

"Well,  I  always  said  Dolly  was  no  fool!"  Cava- 
nagh  relaxed  and  held  out  his  hand.  "I  congratu- 
late ye,  on  me  soul  I  do !  Ye  were  in  the  deuce  of  a 
cleft  stick,  by  all  accounts.  Oh,  I  know  more  than 
you've  told  me,  for  all  your  pink  ears!  Well  now, 
there's  just  one  point — faith,  I  might  almost  be 
callin'  it  a  condition  of  me  silence.  This  tale  would 
be  meat  an'  drink  to  Bath,  an'  it  thirstin'  for  a  fresh 
scandal!"  Lazily  his  hand  fell  on  the  hilt  of  his 
sword,  and  angry  as  Carew  was  he  thought  better 
of  it,  and  held  his  tongue.  "  'Tis  this,"  went  on 
Cavanagh  persuasively.  "To  preserve  friendly  re- 
lations an'  to  prevent  any  misfortunate  understand- 
ings that  might  otherwise  occur,  you'll  present  me 
an'  Miss  Forrest  to  your  guests  yonder,  as  friends 
of  yours — or  mere  acquaintances,  if  it  likes  ye  better 
— met  here  by  a  lucky  chance  as  we  was  travelling 
into  Sussex.  We  dine  with  you,  me  boy,  an'  view 
the  house  after." 

"Is  that  all?"  cried  Ralph,  mightily  relieved. 
"Pho,  sir,  a  bagatelle!  'Tis  granted,  But  gad, 
'tis  a  delicate  matter.  Miss  Forrest — we  must  have 
a  care  for  her  good  name,  you — " 

"O  lud,  I'm  her  doting  uncle!"  said  Larry,  and 
forthwith  was  led  to  the  group  upon  the  terrace. 


258  MY  LADY  APRIL 

Throughout  dinner  Ralph  was  the  soul  of  deli- 
cacy, endeavoring  to  hide  his  jubilation  for  fear  of 
wounding  the  two  ladies'  feelings :  though,  truth  to 
tell,  they  seemed  as  rejoiced  as  he  at  their  escape 
from  the  toils  of  matrimony. 

Seated  upon  his  either  hand  they  laughed  together 
behind  his  back ;  bent  across  him  to  exchange  trivi- 
alities, white  shoulders  brushing  his  sleeve,  curls 
dangling  against  his  very  cravat,  gay,  provoking,  al- 
together irresistible.  Robin  Hazelhurst  made  boy- 
ish love  to  Dorothy,  elated  that  she  had  entrusted 
him  with  the  secret  of  her  gypsying.  Philip  Lash- 
mar  ogled  Julie;  while  Lucy  and  Colin  Carmichael 
had  eyes  only  for  each  other,  what  time  Lucy  was 
not  flirting  with  Harry  Wallace. 

At  the  foot  of  the  table  the  Squire  and  Cavanagh 
discoursed  heatedly  on  fox-hunting,  cocking,  the 
breeding  of  game  birds  and  a  dozen  other  topics  of 
mutual  interest:  and  if  the  Squire's  eyes  wandered 
for  an  instant  in  the  direction  of  Miss  Forrest, 
Cavanagh  would  state  something  so  abjectedly  ab- 
surd as  to  arouse  all  Hazelhurst's  sporting  instincts, 
and  they  were  at  it  again,  hammer  and  tongs;  so 
that  there  arose  no  opportunity  of  comparing  Doro- 
thy with  a  certain  pretty  peddler  wench. 

Dinner  ended,  Ralph  must  conduct  his  guests 
over  the  house. 

Marsh  held  the  door.  "You'll  find  it  all  open, 
Mr.  Ralph,"  said  he  dejectedly.  "  'Tis  parlous 
damp,  sir,  through  not  being  lived  in  regular.  It's 
all  open,  sir,  all  but  the  west  wing." 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  259 

"And  why  not  the  west  wing?"  asked  Miss  Car- 
michael,  Eve-like  desiring  only  that  which  was  for- 
bidden. "Is  it  haunted?" 

'Tis  never  thrown  open  to — inspection,  ma'am," 
mourned  the  butler.  "'Tis  one  o'  the  rules.  Sir 
Julian  liked  it  kep'  private." 

"But  rat  me,  my  good  man!  Now  Sir  Julian's 
dead  we're  not  bound  by  his  wishes!"  cried  Ralph. 
"Of  course  we  must  see  the  west  wing.  I  particu- 
larly desire  it.  'Tis  there  the  heir  always  lives," 
he  added,  turning  to  Julie. 

'  'Twas  one  o'  the  rules,  sir,"  deprecated  Marsh, 
leading  the  little  procession  to  the  great  drawing- 
room.  "Are  ye  wishful  that  I  should  come,  sir,  to 
tell  about  the  pictures?" 

Knowing  next  to  nothing  of  them  himself,  young 
Carew  agreed,  and  the  butler  pottered  slowly 
round  one  paneled  room  after  another,  recounting 
the  glorious  deeds  of  long-dead  Carews  until 
Julie  yawned  behind  her  fan  and  the  gentlemen 
ceased  to  raise  their  quizzing  glasses  at  every  por- 
trait. 

Having  succeeded  in  boring  them  below-stairs, 
Marsh  climbed  to  the  gallery.  "The  west  wing," 
said  he,  and  made  to  pass  the  head  of  the  wide 
corridor. 

"We'll  see  it,"  insisted  Ralph.  "Come,  Marsh, 
don't  be  an  old  fool.  I'm  master  here,  an't  I?" 

Subdued,  snuffling  like  a  chidden  dog,  the  servant 
produced  keys  from  a  casket  on  a  window-sill, 
ostentatiously  blew  the  dust  from  them  and  opened 


260  MY  LADY  APRIL 

one  door  after  another,  revealing  shuttered,  sheeted 
rooms,  dank  and  lonely. 

Coming  into  Dorothy's  boudoir  Miss  Carmichael 
sniffed  audibly,  tilting  back  her  pretty  head.  "Lud, 
I  could  swear  I  smell  violets !" 

Since  all  Dolly's  posies  were  hid  beneath  the  bed, 
this  was  scarcely  wonderful. 

"Can  ye,  ma'am?"  sighed  Marsh.  "Ay,  ay. 
Some  can,  an'  some  can't,  not  if  they  sniffs  ever  so. 
Can  ye,  indeed,  ma'am?  Mebbe  ye  can  see  some- 
thing?" 

"La,  no!"  gasped  Julie,  clutching  at  young  Lash- 
mar  for  protection.  "  Tis  too  dark." 

Shutters  and  curtains  obscured  the  windows,  but 
in  the  half-light  the  white-draped  furniture  loomed, 
ghostly. 

"Shall  I  open  a  window,  ma'am?"  suggested  the 
butler. 

"Heavens,  no!  There's  nothing,  I'm  convinced 
there's  nothing !"  Julie  fluttered  out  and  the  rest  of 
the  party  trailed  after;  and  blinking  in  the  light  of 
the  corridor,  moved  on. 

"The  library,"  says  Marsh,  coming  to  a  reverent 
halt  before  a  door.  "This  room,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, this  very  room  was,  as  you  might  say,  sacred 
to  the  owner  of  the  house.  A  sanctum,  they  call  it. 
Here  Sir  Rudolf  wrote  his  famous  history  of  the 
Civil  Wars  in  nine  wollums  bound  in  calf  on  the 
third  shelf  to  the  left  as  you  enter.  Here  Sir  Julian 
IJked  to  doze  of  an  afternoon,  and  here — " 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  261 

"Well,  open  the  door  and  let  us  see,"  ordered 
Ralph  with  very  natural  impatience. 

"I  reelly  coulldn't  take  upon  meself — "  began 
Marsh,  and  was  shouldered  aside  by  young  Carew. 

"This  is  intolerable!"  he  cried.  "Am  I  to  be 
bearded  in  my  own  house?  Let  me  pass,  you  dod- 
dering old  imbecile !"  He  flung  open  the  door  and 
beckoned  the  others.  "Come  in !  Come  in !  This 
is  the  library.  Some  of  our  finest  portraits  are — 
Good  gad!"' 

From  the  desk  before  the  oriel  a  languid  figure 
rose,  a  tall  exquisite  in  creamy  brocade,  fair  curls 
falling  about  a  powdered  face.  Back  to  the  light, 
he  stood,  regarding  the  intruders  with  half -closed, 
indolent  eyes. 

"Valerius,  by  gad!"  shouted  Ralph  and  leaped  for- 
ward. "So  'tis  here  you've  been  hiding  all  the  time, 
you  skulker !  I  arrest  you  on  suspicion  of  murder. 
Your  sword,  you  hound — your  sword !" 

None  but  Cavanagh,  Dorothy  and  the  butler  was 
aware  that  a  warrant  was  out  for  the  arrest  of  Va- 
lerius, and  dumb  with  amazement  the  guests  stood 
huddled  around  the  doorway,  standing  a-tiptoe, 
craning  their  necks  to  get  an  uninterrupted  view  of 
this  extraordinary  scene. 

"Pray  come  in,"  drawled  Valerius  without  mov- 
ing. "Come  in  and  shut  the  door.  There's  a  pro- 
digious draught,  and  my  papers — thank  you, 
Marsh." 

Somewhat  at  a  loss,  Ralph  hesitated,  annoyed  that 


262  MY  LADY  APRIL 

a  dramatic  moment  should  end  thus  tamely.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  cold  scorn  would  now  be  more 
impressive  than  bluster.  He  proceeded  to  cold 
scorn. 

"You  damned  villain,"  said  he,  advancing. 
"What  of  my  uncle's  death?" 

"What  indeed?"  countered  Valerius.  "Is  it  true, 
coz?" 

"True?     You  killed  him!" 

"You  amaze  me."  Valerius  glanced  at  the  in- 
trigued spectators.  "Your  guests  are  standing,  coz. 
Ladies,  your  most  devoted.  Be  seated,  I  beg. 
Gentlemen,  yours  to  command."  He  bowed,  com- 
pletely master  of  himself  and  the  situation.  "Marsh, 
set  chairs.  Ralph,  be  good  enough  to  present  me." 

Followed  introductions,  bows,  curtsies ;  the  men 
excited  and  eager  for  trouble ;  the  girls  a-flutter  with 
surprise  and  apprehension. 

"Now,"  said  Valerius,  swinging  his  chair  round 
and  seating  himself  back  to  the  desk  and  the  win- 
dow. "Now  let  us  hear  more  of  this  astounding 
accusation.  In  a  retired  life,  coz,  any  mild  sensa- 
tion is  veritably  a  god-send."  He  disposed  a  cush- 
ion more  conveniently  in  the  small  of  his  back  and 
crossed  his  legs,  smoothing  a  crease  from  ooe  silk 
ankle. 

"Gad,  your  airs'll  not  save  you!"  cried  Ralph, 
fuming.  "Consider  yourself  under  arrest,  sir!" 

"Possibly  you  have  a  warrant?"  murmured  his 
cousin. 

A  much-creased  paper  was  snatched  from  Ralph's 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  263 

pocket  and  brandished  beneath  Valerius'  pale  nose. 
He  took  it,  opened  it,  read  it  with  interest. 

"Lud,  very  curious!"  said  he;  and  ignoring 
Ralph  turned  toward  the  Squire  who,  blue  eyes 
snapping  with  amazement,  was  leaning  fonvard  in 
his  chair.  "Mr.  Hazelhurst,  I  believe  you  are  a 
magistrate  ?" 

"I  have  that  honor,"  replied  the  Squire. 

"Then,  sir,  if  'twould  not  be  disagreeable  to 
you,  might  I  suggest  that  you  conduct  this — 
inquiry?" 

"With  pleasure,  Sir  Valerius,  with  pleasure!" 
The  Squire  bounced  up,  seized  a  small  table  and 
planted  it  in  front  of  his  seat.  "Informal,  deuced 
informal.  But  at  your  request,  sir,  I'm  willing  to 
obleege.  A  little  elbow  room,  Lucy,  my  dear. 
Now,  pens?  Ink?  Paper — ah,  thank'ee,  Marsh, 
thank'ee.  Now  let's  see  this  warrant."  He  read 
it  through,  frowning,  puckering  his  mild  lips  in 
deliberation.  "Hum,  this  seems  in  order.  Carew, 
let's  hear  your  statement." 

Ralph,  on  his  feet  with  alacrity,  shot  his  ruffles, 
snuffed,  and  wished  the  room  were  lighter. 

"I  was  not  present  at  Sir  Julian's  death,  sir," 
he  began.  "I  left  the  house  before  my  cousin  in 
order  to  attend  the  Rooms — " 

"Which  house?  What  rooms?"  snapped  the 
Squire.  "Demme,  Carew,  have  the  goodness  to 
be  explicit." 

"Gad,  sir,  I  forgot  you  know  nothing  of  it," 
said  Ralph. 


264  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Not  a  word,  sir.  Not  a  word.  My  mind's  a 
perfect  blank,  as  all  good  judges'  should  be." 

"Sure,  they  are!"  interposed  Cavanagh,  and  the 
court  had  to  be  called  to  order. 

Then,  concisely  as  he  could,  Ralph  told  the  story 
of  the  night  of  his  uncle's  eightieth  birthday :  of  the 
old  man's  angry  disgust  at  Valerius  and  his  foppish 
ways :  of  the  coming  of  Valerius,  and  of  how  he  had 
left  them  together.  Then  of  the  major-domo  seek- 
ing him  at  the  Rooms,  and  telling  him  how  he  had 
found  Sir  Julian  dead  upon  the  floor  and  Valerius 
fled. 

"You've  no  direct  evidence  of  foul  play,"  said 
the  Squire  at  length. 

"Harris  overheard — " 

"That's  not  direct  evidence." 

"No,  sir.  But  Harris  overheard  Sir  Julian 
swear  he'd  break  the  entail  in  my  favor,"  returned 
Ralph.  "He  did  not  live  to  do  it.  If  Valerius 
were  innocent,  why  did  he  fly?" 

A  movement  of  spurred  interest  fluttered  over  the 
little  assembly. 

The  Squire  turned  to  Valerius.  "Now,  sir,  if 
you'll  favor  us  with  your  side  of  the  story,  we  may 
learn  why  ye  fled." 

"  'Tis  little  I  have  to  tell,  sir,"  responded  the 
baronet,  rising  to  lean  wearily  upon  the  back  of 
his  chair.  "  'Tis  true  I  arrived  too  late  to  dine  with 
my  uncle.  'Tis  true  I  refused  to  drink  with  him, 
but  that,  I  assure  you,  was  not  because  I  wished  him 
ill,  but  because  I — in  fact — wished  myself  well." 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  265 

"That  proves — "  began  Ralph. 

"Good  lack,  coz,  it  proves  nothing!  If  I'd 
offered  to  drink  Sir  Julian's  health  in  water,  he 
might  have  found  cause  for  offense,  but  am  I  to 
make  myself  a  sewer  for  fear  of  wounding  another's 
convention?" 

"Demmed  unusual!"  said  Carmichael  in  an 
audible  aside  to  Harry  Wallace.  "Sounds  devilish 
as  if  the  fellow  were  in  training!" 

Valerius  appeared  to  lean  even  more  heavily  upon 
the  carved  chair.  "I  thank  you,  sir,  for  that  word," 
he  drawled.  "!'  faith,  'tis  true.  I  was  in  training." 
With  one  abnormally  white  hand  he  flicked  a 
speck  of  dust  from  his  cuff  and  gazed  with  half- 
shut,  lazy  eyes  at  the  astonished  Colin. 

Ralph  shouted  with  laughter.  "O  lud,  in  train- 
ing! Valerius  in  training?  Pho,  nonsense!  'Tis 
absurd !  If  you  knew  him  as — " 

"And  what  followed?"  quoth  the  Squire,  flapping 
his  hand  at  Ralph  for  silence. 

Valerius  considered.  "Oh,  we  talked.  My  uncle 
was  pleased  to  be  invidious.  He  called  me — if  my 
memory  serves — a  brainless  ass,  a  booby,  a — let 
me  see — a  flaccid  nonentity,  with  other  things  I'll 
refrain  from  repeating  in  company.  But  what 
though?  He  was  an  old  man,  and  my  relative.  I 
let  it  pass.  My  calm  appeared  to  infuriate  Sir 
Julian.  He  foamed,  sir,  positively  foamed,  and 
fell  into  what  can  only  be  described  as  a  frenzy. 
I  rang  for  his  butler  who  gave  him  some  draught 
he  kept  in  readiness  for  such  attacks.  Harris 


266  MY  LADY  APRIL 

opened  the  windows,  and  as  Sir  Julian  began  to 
revive,  I  sent  the  servant  away  to  give  the  necessary 
orders." 

"What  orders?"  growled  Ralph  suspiciously. 

"Why  to  be  sure,  to  have  his  bed  warmed  and 
the  doctor  summoned.  While  Harris  was  gone  my 
uncle  recovered  amazingly,  sat  up,  knew  me,  and 
again  began  to  rage  and  fume.  I  attempted  to 
soothe  him,  but  my  efforts  seemed  to  augment  his 
choler.  He  threw  an  orange  at  my  head  and 
ordered  me  out  of  the  house.  Fearful  for  his 
health  if  I  persisted  to  remain — I  left." 

"What  was  Sir  Julian  doing  at  that  moment?" 
asked  the  Squire. 

"He  stood  by  the  table,  holding  on  by  one  hand 
and  shaking  the  other  in  my  face.  'Twas  my  last 
sight  of  him." 

"None  saw  you  leave?" 

"I  believe  not,  sir." 

The  Squire  hesitated,  twirling  a  quill  between 
finger  and  thumb.  "Yet  had  you  passed  through 
the  hall,  surely  a  footman,  some  servant — " 

"I  did  not,  sir.  Gad,  I  was  so  monstrous  upset, 
I  forgot  myself  so  far  as  to  leap  out  of  the  win- 
dow." 

"But — (Carew,  have  the  goodness  to  hold  your 
tongue!  I'm  conducting  this  inquiry.)  But  tell 
me,  Sir  Valerius,  if  you  were  innocent,  why  did 
you  hide?" 

For  a  long  time  Valerius  remained  motionless, 
his  head  bent,  his  fingers  clutching  the  back  of  his 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  267 

chair  as  though  some  precious  thing  were  about  to 
slip  from  his  grasp.  He  appeared  to  be  consider- 
ing, weighing  one  momentous  alternative  against 
another. 

At  length,  sighing,  he  looked  up,  his  wide  eyes 
cavernous  in  the  pallor  of  his  face. 

"Gad,  sir,   'tis  a  long  story,"  he  said  wearily. 

"Yet  must  we  hear." 

"  'Twould  tax  your  belief  to — " 

"Yet,  tell  us." 

"I  did  not  hide !"  he  said  in  a  ringing  voice.  "I 
went  to  my  lodging  and  changed  my  dress  and  was 
present  at  a  supper  given  by  his  patrons  to  the  gypsy 
boxer,  Merodach!" 

"Faith,  I  can  bear  witness  to  that!"  cried 
Cavanagh. 

"I  heard  nothing  of  Sir  Julian's  death  until  next 
morning,  when  Mr.  Cavanagh  himself  brought  the 
news."  For  the  fraction  of  a  second  Valerius' 
glance  rested  on  Dorothy. 

"  Tis  true,  sir,"  affirmed  Cavanagh. 

But  from  her  seat  beside  Julie  Carmichael,  Miss 
Forrest   rose,    white,   gasping   from  the   shock   of 
sudden     enlightenment.     "You — you     are     Mero- 
dach!" she  cried,  swaying,  her  hands  at  her  throat. 
"You  are  Merodach !" 

"I  am  Merodach!"  said  Valerius  Carew. 

"What — what's  this?"  spluttered  the  Squire, 
staring. 

"Good  ged,  Merodach?"  shouted  Colin  Carmi- 
chael. 


268  MY  LADY  APRIL 

With  one  accord  the  men  sprang  to  their  feet 
vociferating,  "Prove  it!  Prove  it!" 

"If  the  ladies  permit,"  drawled  Valerius,  smiling. 

"Prove  it,  Merodach,"  cried  Dorothy. 

Like  a  lightning  flash  he  straightened  up,  whipped 
off  coat  and  waistcoat,  pulled  his  ruffled  shirt  over 
his  head  and  stood,  naked  to  the  waist,  rubbing  his 
powdered  face  clean  upon  the  yellow  curls  of  his 
great  wig.  Laughing,  he  tossed  the  mass  of  hair  in- 
to the  corner  and  stretched  his  mighty  arms;  and 
threw  back  his  dark  head  like  a  colt  released  from 
the  halter. 

Modest  squeaks  from  the  girls,  who  nevertheless 
gazed  admiringly  at  him  from  behind  spread  fans : 
shouts  and  laughter  from  the  men,  who  crowded 
round  to  shake  his  hand:  tears  of  joy  from  old 
Marsh:  disgusted  grunts  from  Ralph:  the  library 
was  a  pandemonium  for  five  palpitating  minutes. 

"But  even  now,"  shouted  Ralph  as  soon  as  he 
could  make  himself  heard  above  the  hubbub. 
"Even  now,  you  han't  proved  you  had  no  hand 
in — hastening  Sir  Julian's  end!"  In  the  face  of 
this  lithe  fighter  he  hesitated  to  use  the  word  "kill." 

"You're  right,  coz,"  laughed  Valerius — or 
Merodach,  which  you  will — dressing  with  the  aid 
of  Robin.  "No,  not  that  damned  wig,  lad.  Never 
again!  Here,  Marsh,  use  this  for  a  foster-mother 
when  that  broody  hen  hatches  out!"  He  flung  the 
flaxen  wig  in  the  butler's  grinning  face,  and  turned 
to  Ralph.  "Mr.  Cavanagh  has  a  document  will 
interest  you.  Cavanagh?" 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  269 

The  Irishman  spread  Janet's  statement  before  the 
Squire,  who  pored  over  it  intently. 

"The  woman  would  appear  before  a  magistrate 
and  swear  to  this?"  said  he,  looking  up. 

"She  will,  sir.  But  I've  proved  the  truth  of  her 
story.  I  went  to  the  house  and  looked  from  the 
window  of  the  gaming  room.  Faith,  ye  can  see 
everything  that  goes  on  in  Sir  Julian's  dining-room, 
just  as  she  says." 

"Then,  if  you'll  listen  to  advice,  Carew,"  said 
the  Squire,  rising  with  an  air  of  finality,  "you'll  pop 
your  ridiculous  warrant  behind  the  fire,  and  say 
no  more  about  it." 

Ralph  hesitated,  screwed  the  paper  into  a  ball 
and  threw  it  upon  the  hearth,  his  handsome  young 
face  clearing.  "Gad,"  said  he,  thrusting  a  hand 
toward  his  cousin,  "I  owe  you  an  apology,  Val.  I 
was  mad  to  doubt  you,  but  you'll  admit  I'd  cause." 

Valerius  laughed  and  clapped  him  on  the  back. 
"I'll  forgive  your  suspicions,  Ralph,  if  you'll  for- 
give my  deception.  But — you  know  my  boyhood 
was  spent  abroad.  Can't  you  realize  how  tedious 
was  life  in  such  a  place  as  Bath  after  gypsying  half 
over  Europe?  I  came  to  England  ready  to  live  as 
other  men  of  my  station.  But  two  months  in  Lon- 
don— two  weeks  in  Bath  and  Tunbridge !  Faugh, 
I  was  bored,  nauseated!  I  longed  for  the  clean 
wind  in  my  face  and  the  open  sky  above  my  bed. 
I  returned  to  my  gypsyhood." 

"But  your  disguise — your  fair  wig?"  said  Ralph, 
puzzled.  "Didn't  Sir  Julian—?" 


270  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"Oh,  I  was  a  month  in  England  before  I  saw  my 
uncle.  Even  in  so  short  a  time  I  knew  I  never 
could  endure  such  an  existence,  and  'twas  simpler 
to  act  a  part  for  a  day  or  two  now  and  again,  than 
for  months  together.  Sir  Julian  would  never  have 
forgiven  me  had  I  gone  wandering  in  my  own 
person,  hence — Merodach." 

"And  nobody  knew?"  cried  Julie  Carmichael. 

"None  would  have  understood.  None  but  old 
Marsh,  and  he  could  sympathize,  having  loved  and 
served  my  father.  I  got  him  installed  here  as  but- 
ler, and  used  to  walk  over  when  Bath  palled." 

"But  sure,  someone  must  have  suspected?"  in- 
sisted the  Squire. 

"Oh,  I'd  two  lodgings  in  Bath.  One  for  Valerius 
Carew  in  Gay  Street,  one  for  Merodach  up  an  alley 
behind  the  meat  market.  I  kept  no  valet,  and  I  took 
enormous  pains  that  none  should  see  me  come  and 
go.  'Twas  tiresome,  but  'twas  worth  it." 

"But  you  needn't  have  turned  prize  fighter! 
Demme,  Val,  han't  you  any  self-respect?"  com- 
plained Ralph,  never  at  ease  when  the  conventions 
were  disregarded. 

Valerius  stared  at  him,  shrugged,  and  broke  into 
a  laugh. 

"Faith,  lad,  you've  a  lot  to  learn,"  said  he  and 
turned  to  the  others,  his  eyes  wandering  until  they 
rested  upon  Dorothy.  "Truly,  friends,  Merodach 
is  the  real  man.  Valerius  Carew — the  fop  who 
han't  enough  energy  to  kill  a  fly — aha,  that  rankles, 


IN  THE  WEST  WING  271 

my  lady! — he  was  the  disguise.  The  boredom 
wasn't  assumed,  I  can  assure  you.  Gad,  how  I 
loathed  Bath !  But  for  my  uncle's  sake  'twas  neces- 
sary, now  and  again,  to  endure  it.  Bath  got  more 
amusement  out  of  Valerius  than  I  did!"  Again  he 
looked  across  the  little  assembly  to  Dorothy — 
Dorothy  wide-eyed,  flushed  like  a  cottage  rose, 
trembling  under  his  glance.  "Shall  we  tell  them, 
sweet?"  he  said,  and  went  to  her  with  such  a  light 
of  happiness  in  his  face  that  none  waited  to  be  told. 

Cavanagh  shouted:  the  Squire,  remembering  a 
spring  night  thirty  years  ago,  trumpeted  into  his 
hanker  and  stammered  incoherent  congratulations. 
The  two  girls  and  Dorothy  clasped  and  kissed  in 
a  laughing  triangle,  and  the  men  were  so  evidently 
thirsting  to  drink  healths  that  Marsh,  unbidden, 
brought  up  the  last  of  old  Sir  Antony's  pott. 

"Miss  Forrest!"  cried  Ralph,  bowing  above  his 
glass.  "Let  me  be  the  first  to  wish  you  joy,  you — 
you  maddening  creature !  Gad,  I've  a  mind  to  take 
a  leaf  out  o'  your  book,  ma'am,  and  demand  an  ex- 
planation!" 

Dorothy  gave  him  her  hand.  "Thank  you,  coz," 
said  she  demurely,  her  eyes  dancing  behind  their 
lashes  in  a  way  that  he  remembered.  "And  by  the 
bye,  touching  a  certain  challenge  which  you 
accepted — 'tis  withdrawn." 

"You  broke  your  vow?"  he  cried,  teasing  her. 

She  shook  her  head.  "But  I  dare  swear  you 
slept  within  a  house  last  night." 

"At  the  Manor,"  he  admitted.     "But  you?" 


272  MY  LADY  APRIL 

"I  had  an  apple-tree  for  roof.  'Twas  heaven  to 
look  up  and  see  the  stars  behind  the  blossom." 

"Demme,  you're  well  matched!"  cried  the 
Squire.  "Shall  you  turn  gypsy,  my  dear,  and  tramp 
your  honeymoon?" 

Dorothy  looked  up:  Valerius  looked  down,  and 
smiled  as  their  eyes  met.  "Yes,  sir.  We  intend 
to  finish  our  interrupted  journey  into  Sussex,"  said 
he,  and  twinkled.  "To-morrow !" 

"To-morrow?"  whispered  Dorothy,  flushing, 
hesitating,  as  maids  will,  on  the  brink  of  wifehood. 

"To-morrow?"  shouted  the  Squire,  young  Carew, 
and  Miss  Hazelhurst's  three  adorers. 

"Why  not?"  said  Valerius.  "Why  should  we 
wait  ?  Here  are  bride  and  groom  and  guests  assem- 
bled. As  soon  as  I  knew  from  Larry  that  I  was 
cleared  I  packed  a  lad  off  for  my  old  friend — "  he 
broke  off  as  the  door  opened. 

"His  Reverence  Father  Ignatius,  sir,"  said  Marsh. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000126829     1 


